


The Bomb Shelter

by Missus_Byssus



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cussing, Gen, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Link Neal needs a hug, Medical Examination, More whump, Protective Rhett McLaughlin, Sexual Assault, Torture, Vomiting, Whump, blindfold aversion, but actually don't touch him, spoken by homophobic jerks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missus_Byssus/pseuds/Missus_Byssus
Summary: A pile of shameless, trashy Link whump and h/c. Rhett and Link go to Chicago for a conference. Link is kidnapped and traumatized, R&L are dragged through the hospital’s victim processing system, and, years later, Link is upset to discover that he’s still not over it. Starts Jan 2013, right before the beginning of GMM Season 3.
Comments: 178
Kudos: 90





	1. Schmoozin'

**Author's Note:**

> Légendaire, to my knowledge, isn’t actually a restaurant, and none of the people in this story besides our two favorite dorks are real or based on real people.

January 2013  
Chicago

Besides the facts submitted in the case file, besides the obvious horrible incident detailed in the police record, there were a number of stupid things about that night that were just excessive. 

For instance, his decision to try something new at dinner. If Link had known he’d later be hurling it up onto his own face, he would have chosen something that would have been more palatable while coming up. But in the moment, trying to experience this new city and perhaps impress the internet elites with whom he was trying to schmooze, he’d ordered Légendaire’s house crab salad. 

He hadn’t thought to ask if the salad had olives, so of course it did. With a budding reputation for being willing to try anything at all and not wanting to be ‘the picky guy’, he ate the salad with the damn olives without pulling a face. 

Rhett would have been proud, if Rhett had been there. (Another stupid detail that made the ensuing situation worse.) After the day’s conference, the duo had been asked by two separate groups to join them for dinner. Rhett and Link had decided to split up and network with reckless abandon. Rhett had gone to dinner with Stacy Keen and the Cantaloupe Production Crew; Link had gone to Légendaire with the Sose brothers, Harrie Nalt, a couple of young wannabes from Florida, and an amiable, balding old man named John Best who owned a huge production company in Seattle, as well as the thickest set of glasses Link had ever seen. 

Besides the olives, it had been fun. Link sat next to John and spent most of the time laughing at the old man’s anecdotes and marveling at the even stranger food the rest of the table had ordered. Link had never thought of Chicago as a capital of culinary adventure, but here he was anyways, furtively watching John dig into some pieds de porc and grimacing as Harrie poked at the dangly thing on top of her sea urchin custard. She dared Link to eat the dangly thing; he complied, because, first, after a few glasses of wine (only a splash of which he’d spilled onto his black jeans) he was susceptible to dares such as this, and secondly, he wanted to tell Rhett what he’d done, and thirdly, and most importantly, this is why he was here, after all. To build rapport with the bigwigs. To prove he (and Rhett) were actually as adventurous and entertaining as they were trying to brand themselves to be. 

The dangly thing was inoffensive but he made a big deal about it anyways, which made everyone laugh. He sent Rhett a text about the urchin. The evening deepened; guests started to dismiss themselves. He felt good, and looked forward to going back to the hotel and complaining to Rhett about the olives in his crab salad. Then he’d take off his ‘dapper young man in classy business casual’ outfit, shower, put on his ‘dad slob’ sleepwear (his wife’s words), settle in to make a good-hearted yet doomed effort to write up some notes from the day, which would indubitably result in him falling asleep on his phone and cheek-dialing his mother, or Stevie, or maybe the pizza place back home. 

It was January, and Chicago was cold. He and John left the restaurant together, chuckling about something dumb one of them had said and shuffling into the sleeves of their winter coats. Link’s phone dropped out of his blazer pocket and hit the sidewalk with a crack; miraculously, it was unharmed, and as he brushed salt slush from the screen, John exclaimed that he’d just gotten that very same phone. John whipped his own phone out and asked Link about one of the new features, which had been puzzling him. 

Link took John’s phone and did his best to enlighten his new friend. It was dark out, it was late, he was a little buzzed, and he was squinting against a bone-chilling wind. There were probably other excuses too, but in the end he was just being an airhead. He accidentally gave his own phone to John, and took John’s phone as his. 

They bid each other goodbye. John took off to the valet; Link headed towards the bus stop a dark and slushy block away. 

Once on the bus, he pulled out the phone to alert Rhett of his impending arrival, and immediately realized what had happened. 

In retrospect, what had happened was a small but significant blessing. If he were later to turn the ensuing events into a published memoir, he would have devoted a paragraph – or a chapter – to how fortunate he was that he’d been an airhead and switched their phones. For that matter, he would have also included the fact that he’d had crab salad, specifically, as a lucky turn (he’d still complain about the olives though).

But Link would not be writing a memoir about this evening. The closest he’d come would be a painful recounting of events to the police officers and medical staff at NorthShore Memorial Hospital. And neither he nor they would be interested in dwelling on the peculiarly serendipitous aspects of the phone switch or his regurgitated crab salad.


	2. The Second Location

The bus driver pulled the lever to close the doors; Link scrambled forward and asked to be let out. As the bus chugged away behind him, Link jogged back up the sidewalk towards Légendaire, hoping John was still waiting for his car and wondering if he’d noticed the phone switch yet. 

A violent jolt from behind. His feet left the ground and his head was jerked backwards. He caught a glimpse of Chicago haze pressing down onto the tops of buildings, and then a rough, flat blackness slammed into his face, blinding him and pressing against his mouth. 

_I’m being mugged_ , he thought, and raised his arms up over his face, tried to find his feet again. The instinct to shout didn’t hit right away, and it took several moments of being yanked violently sideways and dragged off his own feet for him to take in a breath, with which he intended on screaming bloody murder through the sack over his head. 

A hard, businesslike punch to the gut took his breath away, and in the shock of the moment his arms went to his middle; they were grabbed, wrenched back around, and secured with a _click snick_ of cold handcuffs. Footsteps danced around him, someone muttered about street lights, Link’s feet scraped and stumbled through a drift of snow, and then, finally, his diaphragm stopped seizing and he tried to draw in a thread of breath. 

With the breath came a horrible whimpering sound, heralding the panic that had been scrambling for purchase in the back of his mind. It now burst open within his mind and his chest, making him want to shout, strike out, run, escape. 

Hands gripping his hair through the sack and around his bound wrists thrust him forward, and he fell into a muffled space, soft and uneven, face-first, and his glasses smashed painfully into his temples. 

A car door slammed. An idling engine roared.

 _“No!”_ Link finally yelped, trying to twist out of the footwell into which he’d been thrown. A shoe came down hard on his neck. The car rolled forward and Link’s stomach rolled too; a tiny part of his brain acknowledged that it would be good to try to determine in which direction they were going, but several things conspired against that plan. The first was simply that he didn’t know his way around the area at all. The second was that his mind’s map was already flubbed up from being blindfolded and shoved down into the footmat of a car, facing maybe backwards but he wasn’t sure. The lingering effect of the wine was not helping his sense of direction. 

“See what he’s got,” someone near his feet muttered, and Link felt rough hands wrenching at his jacket and fumbling at the pockets of his pants. 

“M-my wallet’s in my back pocket,” Link heard himself say.

“Ah, a _helpful_ one. Grab it, grab the wallet. Right, it’s right there. Grab it.”

A hand dug past his jacket, under his blazer, and into his back pocket, and he felt the imprint of his wallet disappear. 

“What’s he got in there? How much cash he got?”

“I don’t – I can get cash,” Link said.

He was hauled up by the front of his shirt, twisting painfully.

“How much?”

“Cash? N-not that much, I mean – ”

The man cuffed him across the face.

“Don’t bother lyin’, we saw you comin’ out of that fancy-ass restaurant. You’re loaded. Gonna share some with us?”

“Yeah, ok, sure,” he wheezed.

“Good man.”

He was dropped back into the slot between the seats. The blow had cracked against his cheek, knocking his glasses askew, and was now echoing across his face like a mountain yell. Hands still tugged at his jacket, and a ripping noise made him grimace. 

“Wait wait, that’s a nice jacket, could be worth somethin’!” 

There was a brief argument about the worth of Link’s jacket, during which a knife slashed several times through the fabric. Finally peeling the jacket from his body in pieces, and ascertaining that the only thing of worth in the pockets had been the complimentary mint offered by the hostess at Légendaire, the men brought their focus to Link himself.

“Look at his hands,” said a voice somewhere near his shoes. The men in the vehicle chuckled. His hands, he could feel, were trembling, along with the arms the hands belonged to. He was cold now but the crawling numbness and trembling were not in response to the temperature. He could feel a tremor growing from the middle of his body, clawing its way outwards from his navel.

“Married man, huh. That’s a nice ring.”

Something in Link’s chest twisted, and he clenched his fingers into fists. As if that would do any good. 

“He’s a quiet one." A foot nudged into the back of his thigh. 

Link’s panic sprang fully-loaded from its coiled position in his immobile limbs. He twisted and kicked; his foot connected with someone’s face. His body writhed like a trapped cat, lashing out with everything he could lash out with, and he found himself on top of several bodies, or at least parts of several bodies, and then his shoe hit a window. 

_“Help! Help me!”_ An arm snapped around his neck; Link ducked and squirmed under it. _“Somebody help me, please!”_ Hands caught at his feet but he flailed his legs and kicked into a soft body, and then into the window again. 

_“Help m- Ahhgk!”_ An elbow came down on his middle; his breath once again fled. 

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” grumbled the man above his head.

“Little _fucker_ ,” exclaimed the other, muffled.

“He got you good,” said the first man.

“ _Fucker_ ,” repeated the second. “My god-damned teeth. Jesus _fuck_. Shit.”

Link dragged breath back into his lungs with a wheeze. The men tossed him back down into the footwell and planted their feet heavily against his body. The bag over his head was pulled to his shoulders before the man above him wound a length of rope or cord around the bag and his throat, securing it in place. Once done, a shoe pressed painfully into his neck again. 

While Link trembled under their feet and the car made its obscure way through the streets of Chicago, he heard his wallet being pillaged. What did he have in there? His mind raced. His driver’s license. Some credit cards. His health insurance card. Was any of that important? Could they do anything with that? 

“Charrrles,” drawled one of the men. “Charles Neal the Third? Oh yeah, that’s a rich-boy name.”

“Check it out, it says he’s from California.” This voice spoke through a grimace. 

“Oh that’s good. We’ve had good luck with Californians.”

“You gonna share your PIN with us, Charles?” 

“Yeah,” said Link, weakly. 

“What’s your PIN?”

“It – I, um – ” His mind raced. 

“Speak up.”

“I can’t remember.”

“You better remember soon.”

“Okay.” 

“ _Okay_ , he says. Ha ha. You’re so scared, aren’t you? You should be. You scared?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember your PIN number yet?” 

Link only coughed in response; the foot on his neck crushed into his windpipe. He coughed harder and then gagged, feeling the cord cutting into his throat and tasting wine and crab. A flutter of nausea settled over his stomach, and he tried in vain to curl up against it. 

The sensation of being helpless was the most horrible thing he thought he’d ever felt. The threat of bodily harm alongside his panic and inability to protect himself or control the situation in any way reminded him of brief, vivid dreams of falling. He would jerk awake after mere seconds of that, though. A momentary blaze of hope blew through his mind; was he dreaming? Was this a dream? 

He knew, in a visceral way, that this was real. 

If he could get to his phone – 

John Best had his phone. 

If he could get to John’s phone – 

He had no idea what had happened to John’s phone. He must have dropped it on the sidewalk. 

If he weren’t able to save himself, who would rescue him? His mind whirred, seeking traction. Rhett? Rhett would start worrying soon if Link didn’t show up at the hotel. Rhett would know to check at the restaurant. Did the restaurant have exterior security cameras? Had John seen the men who had bundled Link away and into a car? Traffic cameras, security guards, passersby who had heard Link’s outburst – someone had to have seen something. 

What if they hadn’t?

The thought was too painful to entertain. Nausea gripped him and squeezed; his body bucked against the back of the driver’s seat. The driver shouted. The shoe on Link’s throat pressed down again. He shivered and chattered as panic obscured thought, and the remaining moments in the car warped and stretched in such a way that when the vehicle finally stopped Link couldn’t have guessed where they were in relation to the restaurant, how long they’d been on the road, how many corners they’d turned. 

One of the men opened the door by Link’s feet and he felt himself wrenched backwards out of the cab. Hurried words were exchanged with the driver before he heard the car speed off, and then arms came up under his own, hauling him onwards. 

A sharp memory shot to the forefront of his mind. 

_Never go to a second location._

A conversation he’d had with his wife, long ago. She’d been schooling him about all the things women were warned about to avoid assault. 

_Never go to a second location. That’s where they kill you._

It was better to fight back and get hurt in the process than go meekly to a place of the assaulter’s choosing.

_Never go to –_

“ _NO!_ ” Link dropped down and yanked away, stumbling over uneven ground. “Help! _Help me! Help me_ –”

A body slammed into his and he hit the frozen ground hard on his shoulder. Scuffling; a shoe smashed into his ribs. Hands hauled him up.

“ _Somebody help, I’m being_ – ” He stumbled over his words; assaulted, attacked, mugged? Killed? 

An arm wrapped around his head, a hand grabbed his jaw, and a voice hissed in his ear.

“We’ll kill you right now, _Charles_ , feel that? Feel it?”

Something hard pressed into the side of Link’s head. There was a _click_. 

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth and we might not kill you. Keep it up and I’ll make up for you kickin’ me in the mouth before sinkin’ your body in the canal.”

The hard thing – the gun, how could it be anything else – kept its cold pressure on the side of his head as he was dragged forward by the men. His burst of energy was gone as quickly as it had come, and was now replaced by the new terror of the gun. He felt as if an explosion was pressed against his brain, set for a split second into the future, a hair-trigger away, one wrong step to the side. Nausea clawed at his stomach; he heaved but nothing came up. The thought of vomiting into a bag secured over his own head made him heave again. A door opened, his shoulder banged against a wooden frame and he tripped. The men hauled him forward. 

_Never go to the second location_. 

Link heard himself whimper.


	3. Horrible Games to Play in the Dark

It was the car ride all over again. Some time passed and he had no concept of distance. Doors kept opening and shutting. Things kept tripping him. The men to his sides hauled him down a few flights of stairs, and with each descent he felt his heart drop further into his gut. Who the hell would find him down here? He heard his own breaths coming ragged from exertion and fear, heard some of them verging into sobs, which acted on his mind like the soundtrack to a horror movie. 

Eventually one of the doors they passed through shut with a wretched finality and the two men threw him forward. He twisted and hit the floor on his shoulder again. It felt like cement. He scrambled for purchase and sat up; a casual kick knocked him back down and a light played over the cloth in front of his face. He lay on his side and trembled for a while, trying to hear what was going on. It sounded as if the two men were still near; he heard scuffling. Something heavy hit the floor a few feet away. Worryingly, he heard something being dragged across the cement right up next to his head, and he heard the unmistakable sound of a length of duct tape being peeled from its roll. 

Hands wrenched his blazer apart, over his shoulders and down his arms, and he was kicked over until he was cringing on his stomach, feeling vicious tugging and hearing the sound of a knife, presumably the same one that had murdered his winter coat, now rendering his blazer to shreds. Cloth was pulled away and he shivered in a grey button down that he had always called, up until this moment, one of his lucky shirts. It was chambray and he considered it to be his go-to shirt for social situations that he felt anxious about. It was unassuming and comfortable. He would think about how if anything unexpected ever came up and he found himself having to chop wood, fight badgers, climb a tree or engage in small talk with an unpleasant bigwig at a conference, his grey chambray shirt would step up to the task and carry him though. 

Being kidnapped had not been a situation Link had worried about in regards to whether the shirt would be a boon. It certainly wasn’t doing much for him at the moment. The cement was cold. 

He was limp as they hauled him up and into a chair. He winced but didn’t fight as the cuffs holding his hands together were draped over the back and aggressively zip-tied to the chair’s back supports. His ankles were bound with duct tape to the wooden legs.

A heavy hand landed on top of his head and a sharp, cold light lit up the cloth in front of his face. 

“When we get back,” said the hand’s voice, “I’ll be asking you for some account information. Hope you’ll have time to remember before that point.” The hand patted him roughly on the cheek, through the bag.

Link sat and trembled.

“You gonna remember that PIN when we get back?” The hand slid down his face and grabbed his chin, wrenched it up. From the side, the cold barrel of the gun pressed back into his temple. 

“Yes sir,” Link breathed, and immediately cringed at his own words. 

“Sir. I like that. Good. Sit tight.” The man dropped Link’s chin and delivered a backhanded pistol whip that surely broke Link’s glasses if they weren’t already snapped. The light disappeared. He listened to footsteps retreating, listened to the door opening, to the door shutting, a lock snapping into place, and could barely make out a burst of low laughter fading away.

A huge sob escaped Link’s lungs, and he almost choked. Panicked cries started to erupt from his chest, strange noises he’d never heard himself make before, and if he hadn’t already been terrified the sounds he was making alone would have sent him over the edge. He did not know how to get himself back under control; he did not know what to do or what to think. For a while, his mind went as numb as his extremities, buffered by a fog of dread and helplessness. His erratic breathing wasn’t helping, and each hitch of his diaphragm thwarted his body’s need for a lungful of air. 

_I’m gonna die here_ was the first clear thought that formed in his mind through the panic. Then,

 _I don’t want to die, not like this,_ which sent him into another fit of weeping, but the dam in his head had broken. Thoughts were coming. 

_What do they want? Can I give it to them? Can I bargain with them? How much money do I have? Maybe I can buy my way out of this. How long will they be gone? What are they going to do to me? They won’t use the gun on me, will they? That would be too loud, someone would hear. Maybe they’ll let me go if I give them my PIN. I still haven’t seen their faces, that means they’re not planning on killing me, right? Has Rhett realized I’m missing yet? Is John looking for me?_

He was struck by the reminder that, yes, there was an outside world, though he couldn’t see past his blindfold. 

Link started shouting. 

The men might come back and club him into silence, but for now he was alone. Maybe just beyond these walls, or maybe through the air ventilation shaft, or maybe someone a floor or two above them…

He yelled, he begged for help. He screamed in ways he’d never screamed before. He took a few breaths, listening, and started again, desperate pleas that rang so loudly in his own head that he couldn’t believe somebody else _wasn’t_ hearing him. At first he thought he might have an unexpected advantage in that he knew, in theory, how to scream without damaging his vocal chords. Relying on his own voice for his livelihood had taught him about that. Surely minding the ‘safe screaming’ rules would extend the amount of time during which he’d be able to call for help.

Time dragged painfully on. When no responses bounced back at him and panic began tapping at his shoulder he stopped pausing to listen, forgot about diaphragm support and vocal safety, and simply yelled _for the love of God somebody help me, please,_ yelled as loud as he could for as long as he could until he felt he’d shouted his throat into ribbons and the blood was pounding in his ears. Swarms of light danced within his eyes and his head was pounding but he kept yelling until his voice cracked and broke. A tremendous coughing fit took hold, and then harsh dry heaves that brought up the sour taste of half-digested crab. 

Perhaps somebody had heard him. 

The thought of possible false hope made his queasiness worse.

The next thing to do, he decided, besides weep helplessly and yell hoarsely, was comb the room. If there was something sharp, he could get his ankles free. If there was something really sharp maybe he could cut through the zip ties securing his wrists to the chair. Maybe the men had even left keys to his handcuffs.

He rocked forward onto his feet and promptly tipped the chair over sideways, landing hard, once again, on his shoulder.

From the ground he wriggled and maneuvered until he was bent over on his knees, and then shuffled forward. He noted morbidly that this could be an episode of Good Mythical Morning. The “find out what’s in the room while blindfolded and tied to a chair” game. 

He muttered tearfully to himself, trying to work up a healthy armor of anger as he swept his head forward and tried to locate any possible tools. He hit his head on a wooden post, which, upon further inspection, revealed itself to be the leg of a very heavy table, possibly bolted to the ground. There was a chair on one end, like the one he was attached to. He knocked an ash tray off the table with his chin and gagged over the smell of stale cigarette butts. It was while he was attempting to discern if the ash tray had been glass and whether it had broken into helpful little shards that he heard the lock on the door snick open and the door creek. 

Two sets of footsteps came inside, and the door shut again, with that same awful finality.

“You’ve been busy,” said one of the men; a bright light shone through Link’s blindfold. “Remembered your PIN yet?”


	4. The Worst Interview

“You’ve been busy,” said one of the men; a bright light shone through Link’s blindfold. “Remembered your PIN yet?”

“No,” Link said, from the floor. “I was trying to escape.” Speaking was painful; his words felt like sharp rocks tumbling through his throat. 

“Yeah, we heard you.”

Footsteps came forward; arms hauled him and his chair up into a righted position. Link tried to take deep breaths; his throat hitched and he coughed instead. 

“A little raspy now, huh? You’ve got a set of pipes on you,” the man commented, laying a wide hand across Link’s chest and giving it a rub. “Like a rail though.” The hand pressed into Link’s front, as if measuring the depth of his chest before moving to pick at the top buttons of his shirt. “Lemme just give you some air there.” _Yeah, it can’t be the piano wire around my throat that’s the problem_ , Link thought bitterly, trying in vain to squirm himself out from under the fingers. A beat later and the man had opened Link’s shirt a few buttons and fussed solicitously with his collar before giving a grunt of satisfaction and lifting away. 

A slow shuffle; the collapse of a body into a chair. Scuffling, a box opening. The _fuf_ of a lighter, and the smell of fresh smoke. 

“Okay, Charles, as you can see – ”

“-I can’t.”

“… What?”

“I _can’t_ see anything.”

“As you can see,” said the man again, slowly, “nobody is coming to help you.”

Link tapped his foot against the ground.

“So tell us your PIN, maybe some other helpful numbers you can remember.”

“You gonna kill me?”

“You gettin’ angry?” 

“Depends on what you’re planning.”

Footsteps approached Link’s chair, a slow pacing, and then a breath of smoke blew across the fabric pressed to his face. It took everything in his power not to cower away, but his own steadfastness was ruined by a helpless fit of violent coughs, the last of which ended in yet another heave and a shudder. Another billow of smoke hit him in the nose and he hacked, gagged, and spat onto the fabric. 

“I’d rather do things quick, you know, but we can waste a little time. We ain’t letting you go ‘til you tell us what we want, and in the meantime, things aren’t gonna be good for you.”

“Yeah, you and your second-hand smoke. Scary,” he wheezed. 

Link did immediately regret saying it but there was something anchoring about making dumb snapbacks. 

The man served him a backhand that sent Link and his chair back to the cement. The second man, presumably settled in the other chair, guffawed. Link let out a low groan of pain and spat, again. The inane fear of vomiting into the bag over his head struck him and he fought to settle his stomach back down. 

“Okay, okay, just – ” Link paused, hacked. “PIN number. Lemme think…”

“You’ve had time to think and I don’t got much patience for stalling. No heat in this shitpile and I’m gettin’ cold. You better hurry your ass up now.”

“This is scary,” Link wheezed. “My brain is frazzled.”

“Gonna get scarier if you don’t start talking.”

“Listen, I was never good with numbers – ”

A foot connected with his gut. 

“Okay, Charles, _you_ listen. The next thing you say’d better be a number we want to hear, you get me? I don’t wanna hear anything else but a number. You’re a rich-boy from California adrift in Chicago and we know you got money. Trust me, we’ve had some practice prying the goods out of rich Californians. Just tell us how to get it and you’ll be okay.” 

His chair was hauled back upright and a heavy hand settled onto Link’s sore shoulder, kneading deeply into his muscle. He winced at the pain and hated that the man could so clearly feel Link’s fear through his tremors. He tried to collect any scattered logical thoughts he had left about what to do. He’d give any numbers they wanted if he knew it would mean his release but he couldn’t believe it’d be that easy. Would it be wise to keep quiet, to bide time until someone came for him? How much patience did they have? 

The hand on his shoulder left its perch and then Link felt a pressure wrench at one of the fingers of his tingling right hand. 

“No, please don’t – ” 

A tug, and his ring was gone.

Link knew it didn’t matter so much, in the grand scheme of things, but it still hurt. He heard the man drop the ring onto the table with a metallic clunk.

“It’s not worth that much,” Link tried, pathetically. 

“How long you been married?” 

Link opened his mouth to answer – an automatic response to try appease the man – but shut it again as a stronger part of him rebelled against bringing his wife, in any way, into this situation. These men already had his address. He wouldn’t tell them anything about his family. 

“Is it new? A new ring?”

Link said nothing.

“Looks old.”

The sound of the ring being picked up and spun like a top made Link grit his teeth.

“Playing dumb, huh? This a hot spot for you? Have a family back home in California?”

Footsteps paced back towards his chair. 

“You wanna live to see your wife again you’d better open your mouth.”

“Wife,” muttered the second man, from the table, and let out a laugh. “Look at him, he’s a twink. A twink from California. He’s a homo, man, bet you anything he’s a fag.”

This was very funny for both of the men, and their snickering laughs pinched at him. 

Something impacted his chair, and the smell of cigarette came back. Then, into his ear:

“You a fag?” 

Link coughed again on the smoke, but didn’t answer. 

“You _are_ , aren’t you?” said the man by his ear, and a huge hand came down roughly on the crotch of his jeans, grabbed painfully. “You like men. Got a man back home.” Link gasped, squirmed in vain. “It’s fine, it’s okay. That’s why you live in California, huh? They’re lax with that stuff, aren’t they?”

The hand gave a sharp squeeze before lifting away; Link’s breath came back high in his chest. He tried to listen through the rush of blood through his ears as the steps moved back around his chair.

“Let’s move on, it’s fuckin’ cold in here. It don’t matter who you’re banging,” said the man behind him. 

“I guarantee he’s the one being banged,” said the second man at the table.

“It don’t matter who you’re banging or who’s banging you, Charles. Let’s get back to the PIN, alright? Any bright ideas about that number?”

Link shivered; his mind was ringing. He floundered. 

Something touched his hands. 

“Time to start breakin’ fingers?” the man said. 

“W-wait, wait wait,” Link stammered, swallowed. “Just gimmie a moment – ”

He felt a hideous tension in his right index finger and a crunch seemed to reverberate all the way up his arm and into his head, and out his mouth in the form of a string of curses. 

The pain was unbelievable. He tried to writhe away from it but it crawled up his hand and into his elbow like a burn. His frustration came out in raw yelps but died into sobs when the man behind him took Link’s next finger.

“I don’t want to break your fingers,” the man said. “Makes me feel sick to see a finger stickin’ out sideways like that. But I done it before and I’ll do it again, right now.” He blew another lungful of smoke across Link’s face, and when the ensuing coughing fit had subsided, Link started remembering out loud any number that seemed remotely important. 

He told them his PIN, his social security number, and his banking account username and password. He gave them the access code for his transfer and debit cards, and the cell phone number connected to his accounts. He told them how much he was worth, how much he had invested, and whether his retirement plan was locked or open. He promised he’d get them whatever they wanted, would go to the bank with them, wouldn’t report to the police. 

There was a beat of silence, in which Link could hear the scritch-scratch of a pen. They were recording what he’d told them. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. He shivered through a few more moments of quiet but the pain in his hand was still mounting and he couldn’t sit still for it. He squirmed, opened his mouth, coughed. Words were getting hard. Even breathing seemed to burn his throat. He felt as if the cord wrapped around his neck was getting tighter. 

“Okay,” he managed. “What else do you want?”

A pen clattered onto the table top; there was a heavy sigh.

“Think that’s about it, Charles. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Link barely dared to breathe. 

“Now that that’s behind us, let’s move on to the next thing. While you were in here screaming for help, we were next door gettin’ my friend’s mouth looked at.”

“You fuckin’ knocked my tooth out,” grumbled the man from the direction of the chair. 

“Well sorry,” Link muttered.

“Don’t got fuckin’ dental insurance.” The man at the table pushed away, the chair scraped the concrete. Heavy steps approached. Link cowered. 

“I’m _sorry_. I’ll pay for it.”

“You bet your ass you will. I could knock your teeth out right now and replace mine with one of yours if I wanted.”

Link frowned into the bag on his head. Low murmurs danced on the edge of his buffered hearing and he stopped breathing to try to get a clue as to what the two men were muttering about. He heard a few words but nothing telling, and he felt as if his heart was beating its own fist against his ribcage in frustration. 

“What else do you _want?_ ” he huffed, through the chatter of his teeth. 

“You’ve been pretty good,” one of the men said. “We’re almost done with you. We’ll just have a little somethin’ for the road and you’ll be free. Long as you cooperate.”

There was a new, lilting edge to the man’s voice. Link felt as if a million ants had dropped down onto his skin and were crawling, prickling, pinching.


	5. Enter the Crab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is explicit and contains sexual assault, cursing, and homophobic language. If you skip it, you will not be missing any major plot points. The story works without this chapter.

The brief moment of silence was cut first by a low grunt, and the shuffing sound of someone peeling off a jacket. A garment hit the ground. Then came a short, sharp noise. A zipping noise. 

Link tried to yell _No_ , but though air passed through his throat, no noise came out. He wrenched against the cuffs around his wrists, screw the pain – he thought blindly that if he wrenched hard enough he could break his hands, pull them through the cuffs, and stop whatever it was that was about to happen. His ankles were hopelessly stuck to the chair legs but he tried anyways to bust through the duct tape, tried wiggling his shoes off, tried again to shout for help, but nothing – not even his voice – was working. 

A hard blow landed across the side of his head with such a violent impact that he believed for a moment that it would kill him. Everything slowed. He felt as if he were just his head – a huge, aching, helpless head. His chin hit his chest; he drooled onto the fabric over his face, aware of trying to breathe through something coiled around his neck. He heard ringing – a high, steady note piercing him between the ears. 

He slowly realized that his legs were no longer stuck, and he latched on to that fact desperately. He could hardly remember where he was or what was happening but adrenaline was telling his body to act. He twisted woozily in the chair, heard a _snip snip_ , felt a strange freedom in his arms. 

_Run_ , his adrenaline was screaming at him, coursing through his veins and marching through his brain. _Escape! Run! Fight!_ But his brain stalled out, his body was slow to respond. He tried to lift his arms, and felt his wrists still cuffed together behind his back. 

“Okay, just like with the last fucker, onto the table.”

The men pushed. Link stumbled, lurched, and crashed backwards into something unyielding. The table. His legs buckled and he fell hard to his knees. As his brain worked furiously to reestablish connections with his body, a hand grabbed his hair through the bag over his head and yanked him back to his feet. The men snarled into his ears, huffed as they struggled with his twisting limbs. 

“Get – just get him up – get him onto the – Stop _wiggling_ , you little fucker – ”

A horrible, jolting _crack_ , a white pain. His hearing left him and he felt himself collapsing. They heaved him, stunned senseless and shuddering, onto the table, bound wrists pinned beneath his back. His head hung over the end of the table; blood swirled through his skull. Flowers of light bloomed before his eyes, endless blooms that veiled everything and wouldn’t blink away. His own breath was the only thing he had left, and in a moment he didn’t even have that. A burning acidity shot up his throat and he choked, sputtered. His mouth was filling with vomit, his ears full of the sound of his own pathetic retching. He was sure this was the end.

Voices were exclaiming. It no longer mattered what they were saying, and Link couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful when their words came together to form understandable sentences. 

“… just fuckin’ barfed all over himself, man.”

“You still wanna – ”

“Gimmie that, gimmie the cheap shit.”

“Man, that smells fuckin’ _nasty_.”

“Gimmie that vodka.”

“Here. What are you – ”

Link felt pressure on his throat, and then a release. The cord around his neck disappeared and the sack over his head was pulled away. He spat vomit, tried to breathe, and had time to take in exactly two details from the glow of a flashlight: 

The walls of the room were rust orange, and a bottle was being upended over his face.

The vodka hit him almost as hard as a blow with a fist. Before he could think to slam his eyes shut they were burning. His nose filled with alcoholic fumes and he yelped through a mouthful of crab salad vomit and alcohol. 

“Just cleanin’ you up a little,” growled a voice. Link was barely holding on to reality. More alcohol splashed onto his face, down into his nostrils and burning into his eyes. Overwhelming heat burrowed through his nose and he worried that the vodka was going to burn right through his nasal cavity and eye sockets and start melting his brain. Vodka poured over his lips and he spat, gagged, still trying to clear his mouth of half-digested crab. Alcohol pooled in his ears. A hand slapped at his face, brushing down his cheeks, combing roughly through his hair. The man tugged Link forward more on the table, pushing his head down further over the sharp edge. Link arched his back, bucking and throwing his legs to the side, trying to twist himself down so he could face the floor and dump the remaining vomit and alcohol out of his mouth and nose. 

The table under him rocked; he hoped briefly that it would tip over and he’d hit the ground. Instead, an awful weight smashed into his middle and sank down into his stomach, winding him and pushing more acid up into his throat. The man that wasn’t trying to waterboard him with vodka had just climbed onto the table and now settled heavily over Link’s thighs, effectively immobilizing him. 

Nothing he needed to do was working. His arms were pinned underneath him, his legs weren’t going anywhere. He couldn’t lift his head from where it was hanging, and one of them kept pouring vodka onto his face. He couldn’t even open his eyes to see the face of the jackass who was doing this to him. He wanted to cry but could barely breathe properly. 

He wheezed, hacked, spat, and tried to ignore the fingers caressing across his face and combing down into his hair. There was a voice accompanying the fingers but it wasn’t until Link finally felt as if his lungs were once again getting enough air that he began to register the words, and the fact that more and more the fingers came back to his lips. 

“… pretty from upsidedown,” the voice was murmuring lowly. A finger curled around Link’s ear and he shuddered. “You a showboy at home? Prettyboy from California?” The voice let out a guttural moan. Fabric shuffled. The weight on his thighs shifted. He felt warm tears being squeezed out between his burning eyelids, running down into his hair. 

“Now,” breathed the man above him, “you do this one little thing for me and we’ll let you go, understand?” 

Something pressed into his face; a warm, heavy, rough weight. He felt a tug at his waist and his shirt was pulled from where it had been tucked beneath his belt, and wrenched up over his stomach and ribs. Cold air crawled across his bared midriff and a violent shiver traveled up his spine. Hands – two? four? – wrestled his shirt further up his chest, two low utterances formed words he couldn’t pick up, ideas and images he didn’t want to acknowledge. The hands became sharp; their nails bit and dragged across his skin. 

Forefront in his mind, however, was the thing that was pressing against his face. 

Forefront in his mind was the smell and the burn of vodka, which he grasped at fiercely to avoid the fact that beyond the astringency was a ripe, musty, stale smell.

He clenched his teeth shut. 

“Open your mouth,” grunted the voice above his head. 

Something smooth and firm pressed against his lips. 

“You’ll open your god-damned– ” A blow across his face shocked him into loosening his jaw; fingers pried between his teeth. “You bite me and it’ll be the last thing you do,” breathed the voice. Link felt something – it was a dick, it was a penis, there was no mistaking it, what else could it possibly be – push between his lips and then thrust, jamming itself into the back of his throat. 

Naturally, he convulsed in disgust and pain. 

The man shrieked, pulling his cock out. Link gasped for air. Another blow across his face left his aching jaw slack. The man above him howled, cursed. The weight on Link’s thighs shifted and the flashlight floated above his face, piercing through Link’s eyelids. 

“Fuckin’… Man, look at his _teeth_ , look at those fuckers, he’s got _fangs_! Man, you’re _bleeding_.” 

“Shit, _shit_ , the _vodka_ , that _burns_.” The man above Link’s head growled, took a handful of hair and emphasized every word of his next sentence with a vicious shake. “I feel _one more tooth_ in your gay-ass faggot _mouth_ , and that’ll be your _end_. You understand me?”

Link could only continue to dry heave on the idea of what had just been forced down into his throat. 

“I said _you understand me_ , boy?” hissed the man above him. Link felt spit hit his neck and tried to nod. He felt a wide, angry hand close down upon his exposed throat while another forced his teeth open, jamming something cold and metallic between his back molars to keep his mouth wide open.

The man thrust his dick back into Link’s mouth with brutal force. Link immediately tasted blood, and, wondering whose it was, gagged. He gagged on the thought of somebody else’s blood, and gagged on the thought of somebody else’s dick, and on the pungent smell of sweat and man crotch, on the feeling of rough hairs scraping against his nose and on the pressure that kept hitting him smack in the gag reflex, relentlessly.

“Open your eyes, twink,” grunted the man thrusting above his face. Link did not register the demand. “I said open your god damn _eyes_ , twink,” growled the voice. He tried to shake his head but the hand on his throat jammed itself up around his jaw and held him in place. He tried to blink his eyes open and they burned from vodka fumes and humiliation. Tears blurred everything. The hand on his throat shifted into his hair and tugged his head up and sideways.

The man gave a deep thrust, and the new angle completely blocked Link’s ability to breathe. Horrible noises erupted from his own body as he tried to retch around the man’s penis. His eyes closed again. 

“Keep ‘em open. Everything open,” the man moaned between heavy breaths and thrusts. Link’s eyes watered too much for him to make out anything but sparks. The thing jammed between his molars was relentless and unyielding, popping his jaw open.

“You’re lettin’ him see you,” said the voice above Link’s thighs. 

“Don’t care,” grunted the other. “I wanna see his eyes. Nice-lookin’.”

“Man… get a blindfold back on him, if he see us – ”

“Doesn’t fuckin’ _matter_ ,” said the man, punctuating his last word with an impatient stab back into Link’s mouth. 

“Why? You thinkin’ – ”

“We ain’t lettin’ him go. Little fucker ruined my teeth. Now shut the fuck up.”

_We ain’t lettin’ him go._

Link felt himself spasm helplessly at the words, felt his wrists wrench at the cuffs where they were pinned under his back, tried to kick. Nothing budged.

Link could tell the moment the man who was assaulting him was approaching orgasm. The speed of his thrusts, the rasp of his breath, the tension in the fingers – it was all familiar, in a secondhand sort of way. One very aggressive thrust that sent the man’s cock down so far into Link’s throat that he simply couldn’t breathe, a moment of horrible, trembling tension, and then the long, hot pulse of semen that entirely destroyed Link’s ability to control his gag reflex. 

The man removed himself from Link’s mouth, but kept a hand pressing down on his throat. Link merely retched and gagged, spitting and heaving and wondering if this was it, this was when he would be killed. He felt semen running down the top of his mouth and over his lip, trailing down towards his eye. 

Link was only vaguely aware of a new pressure on his waist and barely registered the sound of another zipping noise. He was busy trying valiantly to evict everything possible from his mouth – remaining vomit, vodka, cum, the soiled lining of his throat if possible.

“What?” said the man settled over his crotch, and stopped whatever he’d been doing. 

“It - … Well he fuckin’… His fuckin’ teeth,” said the man near Link’s head.

Another stretch during which Link attempted to tame his urge to retch in order to regain his breath.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” exclaimed the man near his head. 

“What’s -… Didn’t you…”

“ _Yes_ , god dammit, I fuckin’… It’s just… What the fuck…”

“You havin’ a reaction or somethin’?” asked the man still sitting on Link.

There was a pregnant, frustrated pause, and then a hand once again came down on Link’s face.

“What you been eating, twink?”

Link tried to speak but, between his failure to control his gagging and the burning, scratching, swollen feeling in his throat, could not.

“I said _what you been eating?_ ” shouted the man, and Link noted with some small amount of satisfaction that the man sounded deeply wounded.

“Crab,” he wheezed. 

The man near his head cursed. Link cracked his burning eyes open and could see through his tears that the flashlight was now a spotlight on the man’s cock, still engorged and smeared with blood. 

The man sitting astride Link started to laugh. 

“It’s not funny, man,” groaned the second man. “I’m… This is a serious allergy.”

This was apparently even funnier to the man on top of Link. 

“This could fuckin’ _kill_ me,” cried the man who was now pacing to and fro in front of Link’s face, gesticulating nervously at his swollen member. 

Link immediately recognized the karma of the situation and thought that even if he died right now he’d at least die with a smirk on his face. 

“I poop crab too,” he managed, with a hoarse whisper, “in case you’re getting any more ideas.” 

He’d expected a whack for it but the man on top of him just laughed and thumped with the flashlight on his bared middle. Link could see that the other man was trying to tuck himself back into his pants. His vision was blurry with cum and tears but could tell from the curses that it was not going well. 

“Hey, throw that bag up here,” said the man astride Link. “He’s starin’ at you. He’s gonna –”

“Already fucking told you, I’m gonna kill him. He can stare all he wants. First my teeth and now _this_ shit, oh I’m gonna kill him. Remember that blonde bitch we had last fall, from Atherton?”

“With the ass tattoo, yeah… Wait, you’re gonna – ”

“I’m gonna do something _worse_ to this fucker.”

Link felt a chill creep over his body like a frost. Pinned on the table as he was, staring across the room upsidown, the possibility that these would be his last few moments was too surreal of a thought for him to grasp. 

“Well do it then, or we’re gonna have to tie him back up. I get off him he’ll start kickin’.”

“Are you _seeing_ this?” The man pointed at his front. “I _said_ this was serious, I gotta _do_ something about it! _Now!_ ”

“Shoulda used a condom,” Link rasped. 

This time the man in his field of vision reacted immediately. Link felt hands grab him under the arms and yank him sideways off the table. He hit the concrete hard with barely a moment to realize his new orientation before kicks began landing on him, punctuated by curses. The kicks were half-hearted though, as the man doing the kicking seemed in considerable pain himself. The man stopped quickly, breathing hard and doubled over.

“Get that blindfold back on him,” he said to the other. “ _Fuck_. I need… fuck. My throat is starti… God _damn_. Man, you gotta take me to the hospital. Get that… God dammit, I said get that blindfold on him. When I get back I’m gonna have a time with him before I kill him, gonna make him…”

The man dissolved into mumbles and strained groans, pacing. His partner came towards Link with a long shred of his devastated blazer; in a moment he’d wrapped it around Link’s face and knotted it tight.

“Say your prayers, boy.” This was the last thing Link heard before the wavering light disappeared, the door was pulled shut again, the lock clicked into place, and footsteps retreated.


	6. A Moment in the Dark with Link

Link stopped breathing, and listened hard. He heard another door shut, from a farther room. Any noise beyond that was obscured by his own heart beat and the cloth wrapped around his head. Without the distractions of the two men, all of Link’s attention zeroed in on the near future, when he fully expected he would die horribly after further gross violation if he couldn’t figure out how to save himself before they returned. How long would he have? How long did it take to stop, and recover from, a crab-induced allergic reaction on one’s dick? 

Link didn’t want to think about it. 

He began by rubbing the side of his head against the concrete. The blindfold had been secured tightly but it still didn’t take much to slip out of. A small mercy – a _very_ small mercy. He couldn’t see a thing through the deep black, besides which he knew his glasses were in a shattered heap somewhere, in company with the bag covered in vomit. This thought made the black seem not only completely impenetrable but slightly fuzzy to boot. 

He rolled off his side onto his knees and tried to think. This was a difficult undertaking; his body was shrieking at him. From his broken finger to his aching shoulders, the raw rub of his wrists against the cuffs and the lingering burn in his nose and eyes – not to mention his throat – there were enough distractions. He felt disoriented and drunk, and he wavered on his knees before leaning over to heave up spit and gag on the taste. He thought it might be important to forget what had just happened and focus on the present, but his body was struggling to compartmentalize. 

It took considerable effort to get his feet under him and stand. Remaining upright was a dizzying task, as was locating the door. He tried the doorknob with his bound hands. It wouldn’t budge, so he tried ramming it with his shoulder a few times before putting that idea aside to try later, if nothing else worked. Its solidity made him feel as if he were sealed in a vault. 

His fingers felt frozen but his wrists were hot. Was he bleeding? Would blood let him slip his cuffs? Wincing, he tugged his wrists apart as hard as he dared, and then tugged them even harder – freedom would be worth broken wrists. His efforts only brought a deeper, sharper pain. 

Desperate, he went back to the ‘ram through the door’ idea. After making several serious attempts, neither of his shoulders could take any more and the door had yet to give any sign at all that its hinges were thinking about quitting. 

Link was, though. A shade of dread was coming down over his mind like a curtain at the end of a play. He didn’t want his play to end here. He didn’t want his play to be a tragedy. And this wouldn’t even be a _good_ tragedy. This would be more like an Arthur Miller tragedy, the sort that leaves you in the gutter with a kick and some true, bitter words about life. The sort of production Herzog would probably love to narrate. 

_I am not an Arthur Miller tragedy directed and narrated by Werner Herzog,_ Link thought to himself, but could not conceive of a way to deny his probable end. He leaned against the wall and wracked his mind for ideas, loose ends, anything threadlike he could pull that would unravel into the answer that would save him. He wept quietly while he thought. This was a perk of having lost his voice; if he’d still had it, he’d have been having the loudest cry of his life, and he thought the noise would have made him feel even worse, if possible. 

_Probably not possible._

The only thing left in his mind to examine was the slight possibility that, upon his captors’ return, Link would be able to incapacitate them. Maybe kill them. 

He shifted away from the wall, lay down, and kicked at the door for a while, thinking about murder. He could kick them when they came back. Right in the balls. Wouldn’t kill them but it would feel pretty good for him at least. He could try to trip them, and then when they were down, smash their faces in with his feet. He could try to convince the man who’d assaulted him to go in for a kiss, and then vomit more crab into his mouth and down his throat, but Link didn’t think he had anything left to vomit.

Time passed; he stopped crying. His body was numb and his mind wasn’t too far behind. He felt if the men didn’t return soon he would simply die of terror. The twist of the knife was that he was beginning to cultivate a new fear:

 _What if this_ isn’t _the end?_

He was afraid that if he somehow, impossibly, survived this, the memory of what had happened would never let him go.


	7. Dad Brain

7:56 PM  
Link: _Do sea urchins have dongs?_

7:59 PM  
Rhett: _What kind of restaurant are you guys at?!_

8:05 PM  
Link: _think I just et an urchin dong_

10:15 PM  
Rhett: _How was it?_

10:18 PM  
Rhett: _When will you be back at the hotel? We should check in about tomorrow._

10:45 PM  
Rhett: _Are you guys still at the restaurant?_

11:22 PM  
Rhett: _I’m guessing your battery died but if not and you see this, let me know when youll be back. Im going to bed soon_

Rhett had gotten back to the hotel just after 10:00. He wasn’t surprised Link wasn’t back yet; his friend was more adept at gabbing and networking. Rhett had had a nice time too but was exhausted from a day already packed with schmoozing and shaking hands and was quite happy to settle into his sleepwear and look over the conference schedule for the next day. He thought it odd that Link wasn’t seeing the texts he was sending. Link was not one to ignore his phone for long periods of time. 

Rhett called his wife back home and chatted for a while. He surfed around the internet. He flipped through some TV channels. When 11:55 rolled around and he still hadn’t heard anything, he began to get irritated. It wasn’t that Link had let his battery die that annoyed Rhett, it was that Link hadn’t thought to use somebody else’s device to get in touch with Rhett to let him know when he’d be back. Link was a dad; he understood this stuff. He should know that Rhett would at least want an update before going to bed. Besides which, they would have to be getting up at six in the morning. Link loved his sleep, but now he was still out doing God-knew-what, and keeping Rhett up waiting to boot. 

“Not that you’re gonna answer, but…” Rhett muttered, and picked up his phone to dial Link’s number. He could at least leave a peeved message.

He was taken completely by surprised when Link’s phone was answered in the second ring. 

_“Hello Rhett!”_ A cheerful voice came to Rhett. _“This is John on Link’s phone! I know it’s you because your name popped up.”_

Suspicious wrinkles settled over Rhett’s brow. Apparently Link’s phone’s battery was fine, and apparently some overly enthusiastic man named John had it in his possession.

“John…”

“ _John Best. We met earlier today, I’m the old bald guy who talks too much.”_

“Oh, John! Sorry, didn’t recognize your voice.”

_“Bet you didn’t expect to hear it on Link’s phone!”_

“No, I didn’t… Um, is Link there?” 

_“No. Funniest thing. We were leaving the restaurant and we both took our phones out. He showed me something on my phone – we both have the same phone, can you believe that? – and I think he must have accidentally switched them. I didn’t notice until I got back to my hotel. I kept seeing your texts but of course I couldn’t answer them, I don’t know his passcode! I’m glad you called!”_

“Well that clears a couple things up I guess… So Link has your phone.” Rhett felt something uncoiling within him. This was a valid, if dumb, reason for Link not to have responded. 

_“Yeah, I tried to call him from my tablet but he hasn’t answered. But my phone is set on silent, maybe he just can’t hear it. I set it on silent at the restaurant. You must have already checked his room? Maybe he went right to bed.”_

“No, we’re in the same hotel room.”

There was a pause. 

_“He’s not back yet?”_

“When did you guys leave the restaurant?”

_“Must have been… Well it was before… I’d say it was about 9:30.”_

The anxious feeling in Rhett’s gut returned. 

“Did he leave with anybody?”

_“No, far as I saw. I think he just took off for the bus stop. It was down a block or so.”_

“Was he, like, drunk?”

_“Oh no no, just some wine. We all had some wine but nobody got drunk. Well he seemed a little giggly, he might have been tipsy.”_

“He’s always giggly, that don’t mean much.”

Another pause. Rhett had begun to pace uneasily, pressing the phone to his ear but not sure what to say. 

_“You worried?”_ John finally asked. 

“Well, it’s not like… I mean yeah, I expected him back by now, is all. It’s been over two hours since you saw him. He doesn’t usually… I guess he could be out partying but he’d tell me, like he’d usually text me through somebody else’s phone if he didn’t have his. He don’t know your passcode so he can’t use yours but he’d have no problem just up and asking a stranger.”

_“Well… You want to call the police?”_

Somewhere in the back of his mind Rhett had known that calling the police might become a choice to consider but he hadn’t _really_ thought about it until John said it. The thought of having to call the police about this made Rhett’s guts twist up in worry. It would either totally embarrass Link, which Rhett didn’t really want to do, or it would mean something horrible had happened. In any case the outcome would not be good. 

“I don’t know… What if he’s just out partying and being an airhead?”

_“You know him best.”_

“He might just be doing that. He might… Man, I’m gonna chew him out when he gets back.”

_“Well, whatever happens, let me know, okay? Now I’m gonna be worrying all night too.”_

“Okay, I’ll… Well, I guess I’ll text Link’s phone to let you know what happens.”

_“You can text my number. I’ll get it on my tablet. And if I give you my number you can try to call Link too. Maybe he’d pick it up if he recognized your number.”_

John had Rhett write down his phone number, Rhett promised to let him know what happened, and they almost forgot to talk about how John and Link would get their respective phones back. Since John would be returning for the second day of the conference, they agreed to meet outside the banquet hall at 8am.

With a sigh, Rhett hung up his phone, sat on Link’s empty bed, and immediately texted John’s number, hoping Link was out partying somewhere and might see Rhett’s text come through. Then he stared at the wall. He tried hard to bend all the evidence to point to the conclusion that Link was out partying, probably drunk, and probably not at all thinking about the fact that Rhett was sitting in the hotel room worrying. 

He tried, but there was a big, fat ‘ _what if_ ’. 

The portion of Rhett’s brain that manufactured ‘ _what if’s_ had experienced a significant growth spurt after he’d had children. Rhett could act as nonchalant as he wanted; inside, his brain was constantly churning out the same stuff any good parent’s brain would churn out, things like _what if my kid stopped breathing in their sleep? It’s three in the morning but I’d better go check._ Or, _what if the nature of my profession is actually a horrible influence on my children?_ Or, _What if I am inadvertently causing subtle damage to my sons, as I subconsciously try to sculpt them into miniature versions of myself, and the damage will only be realized when they have moved out, are trying to start their own lives, and are struggling to reconcile who they feel I want them to be and who they feel they themselves are, underneath their upbringing? Therapy is expensive and may not be available after the coming apocalypse._

With two children, there was enough to keep any parent from ever managing a wink of sleep ever again. Rhett’s finely-attuned ‘ _what if_ ’ brain parts were widely adaptable, and jumped gleefully at the task of enumerating the countless horrid situations Link could have gotten himself into, and what Rhett should be doing about it. 

He continued to stare at the wall. 

On the other hand, wasn’t it far more likely that there was an explanation to Link’s absence that didn’t involve Rhett needing to panic? He could have gotten on the wrong bus, and wasn’t able to hear, or respond to calls from, John’s phone. He could be distracted by an absolutely fascinating conversation with a stranger. For all Rhett knew, Link had decided, on a whim, to visit his great grand step-uncle’s war buddy’s dog-sitter’s son, who happened to live down the road in Elgin. 

Despite all this, there was an incontestable detail about the situation that made Rhett very uneasy. This was that he, and he alone, was now responsible for deciding what to do about the fact that Link was missing in action. If Link was in trouble, it was highly likely that nobody else but Rhett was going to look into it. If Rhett just _hoped_ Link was okay, and later discovered that Link had been in trouble, he would never, ever forgive himself for not doing something. Nobody else was going to sound the alarm; nobody else would miss him, not until it may have been too late. 

Rhett’s dad-brain took over. He looked at his phone, sighed, and dialed 911.


	8. Rhett Girds His Loins

He was very apologetic with the dispatcher. He felt silly calling the cops because his adult male friend had been MIA for three hours. What Rhett gathered from the dispatcher was that since Link was, indeed, an adult male, in his full mental and physical capacities, and being that it was Chicago at just after midnight on a Friday night, they would take note of but not officially file the fact that Charles Lincoln Neal III was missing. 

Having spoken with the police, and having been assured that the potential risk to Link was relatively low, Rhett felt better for approximately four minutes, during which he brushed his teeth and settled into bed, thinking he’d try to get some shut-eye before Link inevitably stumbled drunkenly through the door and Rhett would have to sit up and chastise him while hiding the fact that he wanted to crush his friend in a bear-hug in his relief of seeing Link alive and well. 

After four minutes, his uneasiness came back full force. 

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

He grabbed his phone and dialed Link’s number. 

It took three rings for John to pick up. 

_“This is Link Neal’s cell phone, John speaking.”_

“Hey, it’s Rhett.”

_“Hello there again! Does this mean Link came back?”_

“No. I called the police. They told me not to worry yet. They said to wait until the morning to file a missing person report.”

_“Oh.”_

“Listen, I’m really sorry to wake you up at this hour but I have an idea.”

_“I love ideas.”_

“Do you have the ‘Find My iPhone’ app?”

_“… You know what, I do! I got it right away when I bought my phone. My wife made me.”_

“Do you think you could – ”

_“Why didn’t I think of this? That’s a great idea! I forgot I even had that! Hold on a second, Rhett.”_

Rhett waited for several breaths and listened as John, on the other end of Link’s phone, poked away at his tablet. During that time, Rhett couldn’t help but hope that John would come back and say, Oh he’s at that bar right down the street from the restaurant we were at. Or oh he’s on the red line, he should be getting off next to your hotel in eight minutes. 

_“Well…”_ said John’s voice, finally. Right away, Rhett didn’t like the tone. _“Okay, this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, I gotta say… This is putting my phone’s location at this… building… near 18th and Pine. Looks like about four miles from Légendaire, northwest.”_

“Can you give me the address?” Rhett asked, reaching for a pen and paper. 

_“It’s not giving me an address, but it’s … It’s the second building north of the intersection of 18th and Pine, on the west side of Pine. You going to go out there?”_

“I might.”

_“I’m sorry I’m not closer. I’m in Milwaukee right now, about an hour and a half away, otherwise I’d go with.”_

“It’s fine.”

_“Are you going to call the police again?”_

“I don’t know. It depends on what I find.”

_“Be careful, Rhett. I’ve been in some bad situations. You gotta call the police at the slightest doubt, even if it ends up being nothing. Better to have called them. Especially if the law gets involved.”_

“Yeah, okay.”

_“Keep me in the loop too. If you get in trouble or something happens I’m going to be the one to call the police, so you gotta let me know what you’re doing, okay?”_

“Okay, dad.”

_“That’s what I like to hear.”_

“I’m gonna just get a taxi out to where you said. I’ll let you know right away. Hopefully it’ll just be some nightclub. I’ll let you know.”

_“Okay, Rhett. Godspeed.”_

“Thanks John.”

Once he’d hung up, Rhett vibrated silently within his pajamas for a minute or so before springing out of bed and putting his street clothes back on. At this point there was no need to remain calm or take things slow. Either everything was fine and he should just hurry up and get this over with, or everything was _not_ fine and he should hurry up for the sake of Link’s wellbeing. 

He called a taxi, and at 1:05 AM Rhett crunched himself into the backseat and told the driver where to go. He spent the entire fifteen-minute ride staring anxiously between the map on his phone and the street ahead, looking for neon signs, bright barfronts, friendly front porches, any evidence that John’s phone, and therefore maybe Link, would be found somewhere innocuous. 

Each block they traveled sent Rhett’s heart further into his gut. It became clear that they weren’t heading into a hub of nightlife. Driving west along 18th, the street became pocked and the buildings became decrepit. Rhett felt ill as he watched the marker on his phone’s GPS approaching the intersection John had given him, and as the taxi pulled up to the curb Rhett rubbed his hands over his face.

“This it?” asked the driver.

“I hope not,” Rhett muttered, peering at the buildings around them, the ill-lit street in front. 

“You said 18th and Pine, right?” 

“Yeah, it’s just…”

The building John had indicated, the second one north of the intersection on the west side, looked as if it had once been a business, but there were no identifying signs, no cars parked in front and, damningly, no lights on inside. 

“Jesus Christ, this had better be a mistake,” Rhett said. “Can you just wait here a moment?”

“Meter’s running.”

“That’s fine. I just have to go check something.”

The driver turned around to fix Rhett with an incredibly suspicious look from beneath a grey knit cap pulled low over his brow. 

“Look, bud,” he said, and tugged the hat up a bit, “it ain’t my business, but if you don’t come back, you better believe I’m callin’ the police. Fare’s only up to $15 but I’ve had a long day and don’t got no more patience for – ”

“Okay,” Rhett sighed, flipping out his wallet. He dug out a $20. “Here, keep that. I’m just asking you to please wait. I’m looking for a friend of mine and I’m worried he’s in trouble. I don’t know what I’m gonna find in there. I’m not from here, I don’t know the city, and I might need a ride out of here quick. Keep the meter running, I don’t care, but just please gimmie five minutes here.”

Haltingly, the driver took the $20. His suspicious look shifted its focus from Rhett and onto the neighborhood in general. 

“Man, this ain’t a good place to go missing.”

Rhett stared at the driver, as if waiting for any useful piece of local info with which to arm himself as he went marching into the building, but the driver merely advised him to watch his back, promised to wait, and pulled his grey cap down over his ears.

Rhett climbed out of the car, shut his door, and heard the driver lock himself in. He crossed the slushy pavement of Pine in a surreal state; part of him was shouting to rush ahead and barge in ready for a fight. Another part of him felt his own vulnerability and was screaming to do nothing more than flee back to the taxi and call the police. Stuck between fighting and fleeing. 

He paused in front of the building, standing in a shallow drift of snow, and took a deep breath. Phone in hand, he made sure his finger was poised over the 9 in case he needed to dial in quickly. Now what? Should he knock? What if somebody came to the door? _Hello, yes, I’m just looking for my friend, he’s about yay tall, skinny, dark hair, glasses. Is it possible you have kidnapped him? If so, may I humbly request his return?_

Rhett cast about for a different option. Creep around the building’s perimeter as inconspicuously as possible, peeping into all the windows and hoping fervently that nothing, besides maybe Link, would peep back? That would do no good; if he saw nothing, he would not at all be assured that that meant anything in particular. Besides which the lack of street lighting would make it impossible to see anything anyways. He’d have to shine his phone flashlight into the windows, thus alerting anybody who happened to be within that they were being peeped at. 

He found himself approaching the door and watched as his own hand rose and grasped the doorknob. Twisted it. 

It was locked. 

He took a step back. This didn’t tell him much. By this time his feet were numb and his hands were getting there and he was absently regretting not gearing up in his new cold-weather clothing. He stamped his feet, cast a glare down at the snow drifting on the sidewalk, and blinked.

 _There_ was something.


	9. Here Comes the Fuzz

Footprints? Wheel marks? Some kind of disturbance in the snow and slush on the sidewalk, leading from the curb, off to the side bit, and then to the door of the building. Rhett knelt quickly, turning his phone flashlight on, and examined the tracks.

There were definitely shoe prints. 

Rhett stood and backed up. It may mean nothing. Or it may mean there were people in the building at this moment, watching him from the windows. He tried to walk calmly back to the taxi but couldn’t help himself from glancing back over his shoulder every other step, nor from slipping on the ice a few times and covering the last few yards with a hasty dash. The doors unlocked; Rhett clambered into the front seat. 

The driver locked the doors again the moment Rhett had shut his door. 

“ _What?_ ” the driver asked, eyes wide. 

“Nothin’,” said Rhett, and started dialing. 

“What you doin’?”

“Calling the cops. Shh.”

“Dude, should I leave? Are there people in there?”

“No, stay here. Just… shh.” Rhett flapped a hand at the driver, who turned a worried face back to the building. Rhett tried to breathe deeply as he waited for the phone line to connect. 

_“911, what’s your emergency?”_

“Um. Yeah, I think… I’m worried my friend is in trouble, he – ” Rhett choked on his own breath, coughed, and started again. “Sorry. He’s been missing for a while, I have reason to think he’s in this building but it’s locked and dark. There’s no reason for him to be in here.”

Rhett mentally hit himself. He was making no sense. The dispatcher didn’t seem to mind. She asked for his name, his exact location, Link’s name, a description of the both of them, Rhett’s phone number, and details about the evening. Rhett tried to clearly communicate to her exactly what he knew about what had happened so far but as he heard himself speak he feared he wasn’t making a case for himself. 

The dispatcher told him to wait in the taxi and that an officer would be on the scene in three minutes. 

They disconnected, and, now that Rhett had officially called the police into it, became convinced that he was making a mountain out of a molehill. 

“Sorry about this,” he muttered to the driver as he watched for the arrival of the officer. “Bet you’ve got better ways to spend your time than this. I’ll pay extra.”

“I think you’re having a worse day than me, bro. It’s fine.”

All Rhett heard was the word _bro_ , and an unwelcome surge of panic made him wonder if he’d ever again hear Link call him that. 

There were no consequences of getting the law involved when a maybe-emergency turned out to be a definitely-not-an-emergency, right? No consequences except embarrassment? Still, his relief when a law enforcement vehicle pulled slowly to a stop behind the taxi was undeniable. Whatever the truth of the situation was, they’d at least have some answers in short order, and Rhett could do with a few answers right now. 

Rhett got out of the car to meet the officer immediately, but the officer stayed in his vehicle for what felt like minutes. Rhett squinted anxiously between the building and the officer, watching the man fiddling with the car computer, speaking into a radio, and doing other official-looking things that were keeping him from potentially saving Link’s life. 

It was all Rhett could do to stand there and wait, biting his lip and denying the fact that an anxious tremor had developed in his core and was reaching out into his limbs. 

When the officer finally stepped out of his car, Rhett got the impression that he was bored. He wore a bulky jacket over a bulky frame and gave Rhett a shifty side-eye as he came around the car and onto the sidewalk.

The officer mumbled something. 

“What?” Rhett asked. 

“Identification,” the officer said. 

Rhett fumbled into his back pocket for his driver’s license and handed it over. 

“I’m Rhett,” he said helpfully, hoping that this may speed up the process. It did not. The officer took Rhett’s card, turned halfway around, and mumbled Rhett’s name and license ID number into his radio. He gave the card another once-over before handing it back to Rhett by extending his arm all the way out, almost close enough for Rhett to reach. 

Rhett took a half-step forward to take back his card. 

“So what’s going on here?” asked the officer. He stood a bit sideways, one hand resting on his belt above his gun holster and the other jammed into his jacket pocket. 

Rhett squinted at the officer’s badge. Benson. 

“I’m afraid my friend might be in that building there,” he said, pointing. 

“Okay. I can’t search the building unless I have a warrant.”

Anger at a police officer probably wouldn’t get him anywhere good, but Rhett’s already short patience was rapidly dwindling. 

“Well I don’t have a warrant,” Rhett said. “But the phone he had with him says it’s in there.”

The officer turned to regard the building. 

“What you mean, it says it’s in there?”

Rhett took another calming breath and did his best to explain the situation thus far.

The officer turned to grumble cryptically once more into his radio for a few moments. A grainy voice answered back and they had a short, inaudible conversation. When he turned back and started talking, Rhett got the distinct impression that Officer Benson really thought Rhett was being paranoid, that there was no case here to speak of, and that any investigation he did from this point on would be the absolute minimum required. 

“Okay, Mr. McL… Mr. McClaf…”

“Rhett is fine.”

“Okay Rhett. I’m told this building is condemned and I don’t need a warrant. I’ll check it over. If your friend is in there he could face charges of trespassing.”

“He’s not – … He wouldn’t do that. If he’s in there I guarantee he’s in trouble.”

“Well you know him best,” said Officer Benson, shrugging and starting for the house. Rhett barely cared to acknowledge the jab. He merely followed behind the officer and tried to force some of his own anxious energy into the slow-moving Benson. 

“There’s the tracks,” Rhett said, pointing, as they approached the door. 

The officer gave them a quick once-over but didn’t seem worried. He tried the door – of course it was locked. He sighed, turned around, and trudged back to his car without explanation. Rhett’s hands were shaking visibly now and his disappointment with how the officer was handing the situation wasn’t helping. Nor was the cold.

The officer returned after having rummaged in his trunk for a moment. In his hand was a Halligan tool, which meant business, which made Rhett feel slightly better. As Benson hefted the heavy implement, he glanced at Rhett.

“People are always sneaking into the buildings up in here,” he muttered dourly. “I’d wager the phone was just stolen. Those tracks just mean someone’s been in here shootin’ or drinkin’. See they left, though.”

Rhett stared down at the tracks again, wanting to counter Benson. Yes, some of the tracks seemed like exit tracks. But the more he stared, the more he could pick out details. They weren’t a simple string of tracks. There were drag marks, there was a set of round, trackless dents. Why had the steps wandered? Why were they so scuffed? 

The officer swung hard into the doorframe and Rhett flinched and stood up. The pick end of the Halligan jammed into the middle of the doorframe, and Benson levered it back until the lock snapped out of the wall. Rhett crouched behind Benson as the door swung open, sure an entire army of bandits all strung out on God-knew-what would come rioting out of the building wielding guns, knives, and used syringes.

Nothing happened. 

Benson sighed and leaned the tool on the outside of the building. He unclipped his flashlight, spat into the snow, and shone a beam into the interior. 

“Chicago police, anybody home?” he called tiredly. 

The house answered with complete silence. 

Rhett acknowledged his own disappointment that nobody had met them at the door. If Link were here, he wouldn’t be alone. He badly wanted to find Link but, just as badly, he did not want to find Link _here_ , of all places. The tension made the trembling in his gut even worse. 

The officer stepped inside. Rhett followed.

“No electricity in any of these places,” Benson sighed. “City’s too cheap to spend anything on this block. It’s an eyesore is what it is. Wasting their budget on the Park District.” Rhett switched on his phone’s flashlight. Benson continued.

“Like the Park District needs any more money. Swimmin’ in it. Wasting half the budget on the arts while the business district crumbles. Don’t touch anything,” Benson muttered, sounding as if in fact he could not possibly care less where Rhett chose to put his hands. For a while Rhett followed close on Benson’s heels through the dark, listening to the officer mutter half-heartedly about the ill-conceived budgetary bumblings of the city attorney and the collective stupidity of the council. The focus of his flashlight was of far more interest to Rhett, but all the two beams of light were showing them was an empty, unremarkable building devoid of appliances and personal affects. The white along the trim was peeling off in the distinct, geometric rectangles indicative of geriatric lead-based paint. 

The officer may have been being thorough, but he was certainly not being speedy. Rhett asked if they might split up. He wasn’t sure if he felt surprised or not when Benson consented without a fuss. The officer went muttering down one hallway; Rhett sped down the other, sweeping the beam of his flashlight up and down every room he encountered, checking every closet and cupboard door. 

They met back up three minutes later. Benson had found a stairway to the basement. He made the uninterested suggestion that they should go down and check, just to make sure. 

The basement was smaller and just as empty as the first floor, but colder and creepier, a state of being endemic to all basements. By this point Benson had fallen into half-assed mumblings about wastes of space and risks to public health and safety. A sudden scuttling noise made Rhett jump, spin around and point his wavering light into a corner of the room he was in. He saw a long, pale tail slip behind the baseboards, and shuddered. 

“Lots of rats around these parts,” Benson said helpfully. 

Rhett pricked his ears and could hear other muffled, staccato scuttling noises – a scrabble in the next room, a scritching in the wall. He cursed under his breath. 

“He’s not here,” Rhett said, continuing to sweep his light back and forth. “He’s not here.”

“Yep.”

“I don’t get it, why would… Why would John’s phone say it was here then?”

“Could be here still, somewhere. Or this could have been the last place the phone was before somebody took out the SIM card. They’d be long gone by now. Christ, look at this dump. This has got to be from the forties. Who the hell’d have built… Lead paint, too. Bet all the copper piping is stripped. Yeah, looks like no luck here. That’s probably good.” Benson started heading towards the stairway. “Your friend’s probably back at the hotel by now. When’s the last time you checked in with the hotel?”

“Hadn’t even thought of that,” Rhett admitted, and turned his phone around to look at the screen. He took his key card out of his pocket and begun dialing the hotel’s number. Benson took one step up the stairs but paused thoughtfully, cocking his head. As the phone rang, Rhett absently watched Benson go around the side of the stairs, doodling across the walls with his flashlight, probably making yet another cynical divination of why this particular building perfectly encapsulated all the municipal problems of the city. 

Rhett scrubbed a shaking hand through his hair. _Please be there, buddy, please be in the hotel room._

_“Park Westin Hotel Chicago, how can I help you?”_

“Hello, this is Rhett McLaughlin, I’m staying in room… 313. Can you just… I’m wondering if my roommate is back. Can you call up there? Or have someone go check? He’s kind of missing and I’m hoping he’s in the room.”

_“Of course, sir. One moment while I put you on hold.”_

“Thanks.”

Rhett closed his eyes as some generic smooth jazz crackled at him through the line. 

_Please, come on, Link, just be in the hotel room. Have a dumb story about why you were so late. Be clueless, I don’t fucking care. Just –_

_CRACK._

Rhett nearly dropped his phone; the noise reverberated through his bones. His eyes snapped around but he couldn’t see where Benson had gone. He heard another bang, a painful splintering noise from around the corner of the staircase. Rhett hadn’t noticed another hallway there. Keeping his phone pressed to his ear, he went around the base of the stairs and saw a door opening off the side of a short hallway. 

“Well shit,” came the voice of Officer Benson, from within the open door. 

Rhett stepped through the doorway and almost fell on his face; four cement steps down led to another short, narrow hallway with a steeply sloping floor. Yet another door was sunk into the side of the hallway where it ended. 

That one was open, hanging inward on its hinges. Rhett, as he followed down the short staircase, could see the light from Benson’s flashlight, glowing a strange orange, and hear Benson’s voice. It was a different tone of voice than the bitter mumbles Rhett had thus far gotten to know. 

_“Thank you for holding, Mr. McLaughlin_ ,” said a voice suddenly in Rhett’s ear, and he didn’t hear what she said after that. 

Rhett stepped into the doorway.

The officer’s back was to Rhett, and he was holding up his badge in a placating manner, talking lowly to a slim shadow in the corner that then seemed to melt down the wall onto the cement floor. Benson moved quickly. From Rhett’s perspective, the shape over which Officer Benson now knelt was mostly hidden from Rhett’s view but he didn’t need very many hints to know what Benson had found.


	10. The Crime Scene

Rhett’s focus narrowed; his sense of hearing seemed to leave him. He vaulted into the strange, cold room, nearly tripped over the officer’s feet, and looked upon the huddled form of his best friend.

“Oh my God,” he heard himself say, crouching and landing hard on his knees. “Holy shit. Are you okay? Oh my God, Link.”

Link was clearly alive, and clearly awake. His eyes were open, and he was even twisting around to sit up, which seemed hard. His face was wrong. His posture was wrong. His color and his silence were wrong. Rhett leaned in and reached forward to help his friend. A hand – Benson’s – grabbed at Rhett’s wrist.

“Don’t touch him yet, gotta assess the injuries,” he said quietly.

Of course the officer was right. The instinct to pull his found friend into a giant hug, a _Jesus Christ I thought you were dead don’t ever do that again_ kind of hug, was very strong. Rhett’s hands ghosted around Link’s shoulders, his head, his body, wanting some solid reassurance but terrified of making anything worse.

Link, despite Benson’s belated protests, lurched forward on his knees, lost his balance, and landed clumsily against Rhett’s body. Rhett steadied him gently, silently chanting _Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God Link._

He saw immediately that part of what was wrong was that Link’s hands were affixed to each other behind his back in a shadowy mass. 

His attention was torn from that by a painful, high noise close to Rhett’s ear. He looked at Link’s face and tried to make sense of what was happening. 

Link was trying to speak, but the sad noises Link was making were unintelligible. 

“What are you saying?” Rhett said.

Link, looking near tears, tried again and fell into a coughing fit that sounded as if it were going to bring up bits of lung. 

“Did you just say _they’re coming back_?”

Link nodded and spat blood on the ground. A thrill of fear washed through Rhett’s body and he glanced at the open doorway. 

“Who?”

Link, coughing again, merely shook his head. He leaned heavily into Rhett and tried to pull his feet under himself.

“Woah dude, just stay down,” Rhett heard himself say.

Link replied with more wheezing noises which Rhett assumed to be another attempt at _they’re coming back._

The fear Rhett had first felt upon hearing this was now melting into something hotter and meaner that settled into his fists, and a part of Rhett’s mind hoped whoever had done this _would_ return. 

Benson had been crouching near them, muttering rapidly into his radio, calling for some back-up and an ambulance. Once done, he and his flashlight wedged themselves into the mess that Rhett and Link’s collective bodies had created. Rhett was trying to keep Link from getting up; Benson was attempting to assess Link’s injuries. Link himself seemed single-mindedly focused on getting to his feet and leaving.

“Mr. Neal, backup and an ambulance are five minutes out. We’ll get you out of here in a second. I need to know the extent of your injuries before we can move you.” Benson’s voice had switched yet again, now from rapid-fire radio reporting into a low, gentle tone. Link stopped trying to stand and, as Rhett held uselessly on to Link’s shoulders, Benson aimed his flashlight into Link’s face, left eye first. 

As the officer asked Link to close one eye, and then the other, and to look from side to side, and to do other mysterious things that Rhett supposed would allow him to asses Link’s condition, all Rhett could do was stare at Link’s illuminated face and try to keep breathing. 

His face was a mess; he was crying. His cheeks were wet with tears, and marked with several deep red bruises and welts. One of his ears was split open and a cut on his temple had bled a lot and left a red crust that trailed down onto the collar of his shirt. A cut on his lip had done the same. His glasses were gone. 

None of these details seemed to faze Benson. 

“Okay, good so far,” he said. “Move your left foot please.”

Link did.

“Move your right foot.”

Link did.

“Great, good. Move your…”

Benson took in the fact that Link’s hands were nowhere to be seen. He hefted himself up from his crouch and came around to look at Link’s back. Rhett craned his head around to watch as Benson’s flashlight beam landed on Link’s hands, secured together with metal handcuffs and covered with enough blood to make Rhett’s stomach turn over. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on his friend. 

“Alright, Mr. Neal, move your right hand just a little. Great, and now your left hand. Okay. I’m going to take these off, hang on a second.”

Link leaned heavily into Rhett and shivered as Benson dug into his belt and retracted a shiny little thing that Rhett supposed must be a key. Benson moved in, flashlight in one hand, and very carefully found the keyhole.

As Benson worked, Rhett, regrettably, noticed that one of Link’s fingers was bent sharply backwards in the wrong direction. 

He turned his face forward again, trying not to squeeze Link too tightly. 

_Click._

“Got it. Hold on,” said Benson. 

Rhett felt Link’s shoulders draw up towards his neck and felt him take in a deep, haggard breath. 

“Okay, they’re off.” Benson dropped them on the ground. “I see you’ve got a busted finger there. Don’t worry, totally fixable. Let’s get you out of here. Come on up.” Rhett let go of one side of Link and hauled up on one arm as Benson hauled on the other. “The ambulance should be here any minute and my car is right outside. It’s totally safe. Backup is coming too. If anybody thought they’d be coming back for you they’d see the emergency lights and take off.”

Link found his feet. He seemed surprisingly steady, but it was painful to watch him try to bring his arms back to a normal orientation. Every time the mess of Link’s hands was caught in one of the flashlight beams, Rhett’s stomach did a flip-flop, so instead of looking ahead at them Rhett craned around with his phone’s flashlight in his free hand, taking a quick once-over of the room.

Not much in there.

Some blood here and there on the floor, a table. Some shards of glass and the ravaged remains of what Rhett assumed had been Link’s blazer. 

Something glinted on the floor. 

Rhett let go of his friend long enough to reach down for Link’s wedding band. 

The stairs from the basement to ground level were trying; by that time, Link was shaking hard and his legs seemed to be losing their integrity. Rhett stuffed his phone back into his pocket – they didn’t need two flashlights anymore – and used both arms to support his friend as best he could. This was not easy, in a staircase abreast of two other men. 

“It’s alright,” said Benson. “We’re almost out. Backup is just about here. You’ve just got the shakes. Totally understandable. You’re going to be alright.”

Rhett glanced over Link’s bowed head and saw that despite Benson’s reassurances, he was worried. 

By the time they got to the exterior door Link was stumbling quite a bit but once Rhett pushed the door open and the cold, January wind hit them like a board, he seemed to stabilize. They headed straight for Benson’s vehicle over the slush-covered road. Benson opened the door and the two of them managed to set Link down on the seat. Benson procured a first aid kit, from which he pulled a crackling, silver Mylar blanket. Rhett jogged around to the other side and squeezed himself across the back seat to help Benson tuck the blanket around Link’s body, and then skootched close to carefully wrap his arm around Link’s shoulder. Link lowered his head down to press into Rhett’s collarbone. 

Time was changing. The anxiety that Rhett had been harboring for the past few hours had fallen away. They’d found Link and he was okay. His concern over Link’s whereabouts was now displaced by a deep worry about what had happened to his friend, but at least Link was alive, thank God, and conscious. At least he was safe now. 

The backup arrived with sirens and lights blaring and flashing – more emergency vehicles, an ambulance. Rhett watched through their car’s window with blurred eyes as a troop of officers filed in through the building’s door, and others in white suits followed soon after. Someone from the ambulance approached their vehicle and huddled briefly with Officer Benson. 

The door next to Link opened; a woman in black winter gear bearing the EMT insignia appeared, with another police officer close behind, and begun asking questions while taking Link’s blood pressure, measuring his responsiveness, and shining a flashlight into his eyes. It was all Rhett could do to follow what she was saying. Link was trying to be responsive but didn’t have much of a voice. His attempts at speaking mostly led to fits of coughing. Sometimes he would look towards Rhett and mouth his answers for Rhett to report back to the EMT. 

This is how Rhett learned that Link had been abducted by two men, that he’d lost his voice by screaming for help, and that they’d taken his wallet. At this, the officer lurking behind the EMT scribbled furiously on his notepad and interrupted to ask if there was anybody who could be contacted to request credit card and other account cancellations. Through Rhett, Link shared his wife’s contact information and then proceeded to look even more worried than before. 

He continued on to indicate that they’d broken one of his fingers, that he’d been blindfolded the whole time and could not describe his attackers, that the two men had left because of some sort of allergic reaction – Link would not elaborate – and that really he was fine and no he did not need to go to the hospital. 

“You’re very tough,” said the EMT mildly, as she poked and prodded at his bloody wrists, “but you really do need to go to the hospital. They’ll set your finger so it heals right and get these wrists cleaned up so they don’t scar as much. I’d like to have a look at your throat now. Open wide and give me an ‘ah’.”

Link tugged desperately at Rhett’s arm. He was so upset that Rhett was having a hard time reading what Link was trying to mouth. The EMT looked on in confusion. 

“He’s saying that he… thinks the men that did this went to the hospital?” Rhett tried. Link nodded. 

“NorthShore Memorial has security protocols,” the EMT said soothingly. “Even if these men are there – and you know Chicago’s got a lot of hospitals – they won’t know _you_ are. We’ve alerted hospital security and they’re watching for folks coming in with allergic reactions.”

Link mouthed something to Rhett. 

“What?” Rhett asked.

Link tried again, while spidering one hand across the other.

“ _Crab?_ "

Link nodded. 

“Crab allergy?”

Link nodded again. 

“He says the men have a _crab_ allergy,” Rhett stated to the EMT, who looked concerned and jotted worrisome little notes down on her tablet. Why a shellfish allergy would be more cause for alarm than any other allergy Rhett could not begin to guess. 

Rhett had no idea how long they sat there in the police car. The EMT did a hurried once-over of Link’s wellbeing and determined that his life was in no immediate danger. She told him a visit to the hospital was still in order for a more complete examination, and to allow, with Link’s permission, forensic evidence collection. She said this last bit in an unnecessarily cryptic manner while eyeing Link suspiciously; Link seemed to wither under her look. She assured them that they would call ahead and that Link would be ushered through to the Emergency Department’s fast-track.

In the end Link decided, and managed to communicate to Rhett that, he didn’t want to take an ambulance to the hospital but he did want to get to the hospital using an alternate, less-expensive way. Officer Benson was currently occupied with the crime scene investigation, so Rhett’s taxi driver, who had stuck around through all the drama, said he’d be happy to take Rhett and Link to the hospital at no charge. 

Before pulling away, the driver took off his grey knit cap and handed it to Rhett. As they left the scene Rhett thanked the driver and drew the hat over Link’s head, noticing for the first time that Link’s hair was matted into tufts as if it had been wet, and that Link had a strange scent about him that smelled unpleasantly of middle school biology class. 

Ordinarily, this would have sparked an animated discussion about personal hygiene, olfactory peculiarities, and their shared experiences in gradeschool dissecting animal bits. 

It was a silent ride.


	11. Buddy System: Paperwork Edition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this part months ago, before COVID happened. I have portrayed some medical staff in this and in following chapters in a somewhat negative light. In any circumstance, but especially our current circumstance, I am so grateful for patient-facing medical workers and would like to extend my respects to them here, which is a dumb place to put them but here they are. My portrayal of certain characters isn’t a reflection of my opinion of or experiences with medical professionals.

Link, exhausted and shivering and making the blanket rattle a little, leaned into Rhett and kept his head down. He held his broken finger out in front of himself in a bloody claw. Rhett tried not to squeeze Link too tightly about the shoulders as his brain raced around in spirals of thought, from _what happened to Link_ to _they’d better catch who did this_ to _what if this changes Link forever?_ His brain put together vivid scenes of Link’s captors punching him down and snapping his finger, of Link screaming and struggling. 

Upon arrival at the hospital, Rhett threw a few hefty bills at their driver and tried his best to give his sincere thanks. Once into the hospital lobby they were checked in and notified that the police had already phoned with the information gathered thus far. Link’s struggle with speaking led Rhett to rattle off the answers to the clerk’s questions about Link’s full name, date of birth, and address. The clerk printed out a wristband for Link, pushed up one of his sleeves, and secured the band high on Link’s forearm so it wouldn’t chafe the wounds around his wrist. Then a triage nurse met them and sat Link down in a chair before a slew of equipment and became extremely interested in Link’s mouth and throat. 

Once the nurse had assured himself Link’s breathing wasn’t obstructed, he moved on to take Link’s blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and other such metrics before handing Link a form (which Link subsequently handed to Rhett) that said something about allowing Rhett to be in-the-know regarding Link’s state of being and such. The nurse then stuck an otoscope into Link’s injured ear and said he was just making sure no brains were leaking out, which Rhett thought was in unbelievably poor taste. Link was then subjected to a blood draw and given an ice pack for his finger, and then they were both ushered to the small and crowded fast-track waiting room. Before they sat down, the nurse handed Link a clipboard loaded with paperwork.

Link stared at the paperwork for a few seconds before handing that too to Rhett and leaning his head heavily into Rhett’s shoulder. Rhett filled out as much as he could, relying on a few vague ‘yes’ or ‘no’ motions from Link to answer health history questions. 

Mere minutes passed before a tired-looking nurse came shuffling through the doorway and called Link’s name. They rose to meet her as she came forward. 

“I’m Rita. I’ll take you back to a room now.” She beeped the barcode on Link’s wristband before turning to Rhett. “Are you a friend?”

“Yeah, I’m his paperwork buddy,” he said, waving the clipboard full of forms. Rita gave a singular explosive chortle which shook her whole large frame; Link remained stone-faced. 

“Charles, is it okay if your friend comes back with you?” she asked. 

Link nodded.

“Okay. You can ask to be alone at any point.”

Link nodded again and shifted a half-step closer to Rhett.

Rita led them through the doors, keeping a careful side-eye on Link. Rhett kept a hand hovering behind Link’s shoulder. 

“That was pretty quick,” said Rhett, trying for a hint of brightness to start off whatever this ordeal would turn into. “Seems like a busy night here, I’m surprised you got to us this fast.”

“Don’t get too excited,” said Rita, moving aside for a passing bevvy of staff pushing an empty wheelchair. “You’re still gonna have wait-time. We just wanted to get you into your own room to wait. Protocol is to get victims into a room quick, you know, somewhere you can feel a little safer. Keep that ice pack on your hand there, Charles.”

Link obliged and they followed Rita past a few more doors before coming to an open room. She gestured to a set of chairs next to a desk before closing the hallway-facing window blinds. 

“Take a seat if you’d like. I’ll be coming back to get you to radiology for an x-ray and then I’ll do your medical screening.”

“Is there a restroom?” Rhett asked, thinking Link would like to clean up a little. He knew Link well enough to know that the dried blood on his face and neck, not to mention whatever was in his hair, was likely driving him nuts. 

“If you go back to the waiting room you can follow the signs, there’s a bathroom down the hall from the front desk. But not you,” she said, looking slightly apologetic and pointing at Link. “You just sit tight.”

Link opened his mouth to protest but only squeaked a little. 

“The doctor might want to take a urinalysis,” she said. 

“Can’t I get some of that blood off his face at least?” Rhett asked.

“No, unfortunately, that’s gotta stay for now. Forensics will want to document all that stuff before cleaning up.”

Rhett looked at Link helplessly. His friend stared down at the ice pack in his hands. 

“Alright, okay…” Rhett sighed. “Makes sense.”

“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Is there anywhere I can get some water?”

Rita paused in the doorway and pointed down the hall.

“There’s a vending machine down there a bit, or there’s a drinking fountain by the bathrooms.”

“Thanks.”

“But not you,” she said again, fixing one last stare at Link. “No food or water ‘til the doc says so.”

Rhett felt irritation on Link’s behalf crawl into his mind, but Rita had left, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t her fault, after all. There were probably good reasons for all these dumb precautions but right now they were just making Link more miserable, and Rhett felt helpless. 

Link had taken a seat, pulling the Mylar blanket tighter around his shoulders and keeping the ice pack in place. Rhett sat down next to him with a heavy sigh. 

“Time for your paperwork buddy to get busy I guess.”

Rhett’s phone rang while they were near the end of the stack. It was Link’s wife, several time zones away, and she sounded near hysterics. There were an awkward few moments during which she wanted to speak to Link, Link grabbed for the phone, forgetting about his bent finger, but could not properly speak, let alone properly hold the phone, and Rhett leaned in to explain to her that Link had largely lost his voice. He put the phone on speaker and did his best to assure her that they were safe, getting Link help, and that they’d call later. 

Before hanging up they learned she’d been woken up in the middle of the night to a call from the police and had had to get up and dig through file cabinets and computer documents to provide the information they needed to halt all account activity, which had woken the kids up. When she’d finally been able to hang up she’d called Link’s number but a strange man named John had answered instead, and he knew even less than she did. In the meantime the kids were wide awake, terrified, and she had no idea what to tell them.

At this point she was speaking through great, heaving sobs, which was causing Link to weep helplessly. One arm now around Link and the other holding the phone, Rhett tried to fill the gap between the two members of the Neal family with the sorts of words one might find on posters in a therapist’s office. Rhett hoped Link would tease him about it later.

Once they’d hung up, Rhett pulled a box of tissues off the desk and set it in Link’s lap. 

“Keep the used ones, forensics might want to analyze your boogers,” Rhett said, once more trying to make light of the heavy situation, but his comment only brought a new cloud of worry over his friend’s face. Rhett set himself to finishing the rest of the paperwork before Rita’s return; it would be a good distraction for both of them. 

Link carefully wiped at his nose, and Rhett, out of the corner of his eye, saw the tissue come away bloody. 

“Aw man. You’ve got a…” Rhett put the clipboard down. “Lemme see your nose, put your hands down. Keep the ice on your… Yeah… It’s not bad. Don’t look at that,” he said, and took the bloody tissue out of Link’s hands. “Don’t want you fainting. Yeah, it’s not bad. Does it hurt?” 

Link shook his head. 

“Good.”

Rhett gave Link’s face a critical eye, feeling the rage he’d pushed aside earlier start to glow hot again at the thought of what might have been done to his friend. At not knowing what had been done. 

“You know what, actually, if you feel like fainting, go ahead and faint,” he said, reaching up with a tissue to dab a little of the fresh blood under Link’s nose. “This is a great place to faint. Hospitals are the best places to faint. That’s what my grandma always said. Only dunderbutts pass up the opportunity to faint in a hospital. That’s what she said.”

Link stared vaguely at a spot just past Rhett’s ear and sniffed a little. Rhett gave one more dab at Link’s nose and threw the tissues in the wastebasket. 

“Garbage bin’s probably cleaner than my dishwasher, they can have those tissues if they want to analyze your boogers. How’s your finger? Is that ice helping any?”

Link shook his head again but Rhett wasn’t sure Link had really been listening. 

“Okay, let’s get this crap finished up,” Rhett said, and reached for the clipboard. From within his back pocket his phone gave a little chirp. Rhett dug it out and looked at the screen. 

It was Link’s phone. Rather, it was John Best. 

“Oh, it’s John,” he murmured to Link. “He has your phone.”

Link laid his head on Rhett’s shoulder and looked at Rhett’s phone. 

“He says… your wife called your phone. He wants to know if she got in touch with you. I’ll just…”

Rhett begun typing a response, Link looking on. 

_Yeah she called. We’re in a hospital/.. THANK YOU. Link is ok. We will fill you in later._

_Thank God_ , came John’s reply. 

Rhett saw that John was typing more, but at that moment a knock came to their door and Rita stepped in. 

“Time for an x-ray. We’ll see what’s going on with that finger. This will only take a few minutes, you can leave the blanket here. Oh, is your nose bleeding?”

“It stopped now but yeah, he blew his nose and it started bleeding a little.”

“Okay. We’ll take a look at that too when we get back. Let’s get you an x-ray. How do you feel, do you feel dizzy at all?” 

Link shook his head.

“Steady on your feet? We can get you a transport chair.”

Link shook his head and mouthed _I’m fine_. Nevertheless Rhett followed close, one eye on Rita and the other watching for any signs that Link was about to take Rhett’s grandma’s fictional advice and faint. Rita asked Rhett to wait on a bench outside the radiology department. He sat, bouncing his feet nervously, twining his fingers together and noticing with a small shock that the wall clock across from him read 2:30 AM. He took out his phone again and checked the time, because he’d never quite been able to trust analog clocks. 

2:31 AM.

A nurse in blue scrubs passed by, pushing somebody in a wheelchair. Rhett became aware of how loudly he was tapping his feet on the sheet tile floor and made an effort to still his nerves. He looked at his phone clock. Mere minutes had passed since Link had gone through the doors. Rhett didn’t like not being next to Link and he didn’t like the fact that Rita, though she seemed nice, did not give off obvious waves of motherly concern and compassion.

Rhett started tapping his feet again and took his phone out. He needed a distraction or he’d be liable for tapping a hole straight through the hallway floor. He saw that John had sent another text, and opened it. 

John: _Tell him Im glad hes ok. I havent been sleeping, i was worried._

 _I’ll tell him_ , Rhett typed back. _Hes getting an xray right now. Hey I hate to say it but we didnt find your phone. It must be there or it was there at one point Maybe they will find it, I think theyre still out there investigating_

John: _I’m not worried about my phone. It doesn’t matter, im just glad it helped find him. He had an awful evening from the start_

Rhett: _How so?_

John: _His salad came with olives. He told me he hates olives but he ate them anyways_

Rhett: _Why the heck didnt he pick them off?!_

John: _They were in little pieces like tapenade mixed in_

Rhett: _He complains about olives But apparently he will eat mystery urchin parts with little hesitation. Thats Link up and down_

John: _Ha!_

Rhett: _HE should have known to ask for no olives, hes used to placing the pickest orders at restaurants_

John: _To be fair it was a crab salad, those dont usually come with olives in my experience._

Rhett read John’s last text right before the doors of the radiology department swung open. Rita came through and held the door for Link, who looked pale. Rhett bade a hasty text goodbye to John before standing up and shoving his phone back into his pocket. 

“How’s it look?” he asked. 

“Looks a lot like a broken finger,” said Rita, “but we’ll wait for the radiologist to check it over. It won’t take too long. Let’s get back to the room and I’ll do a quick screening. Forensics should be here soon to take over.”

They went back to the room and Rhett watched, for the third time that night, as Link’s blood pressure and pulse were taken. She went through the tower of paperwork Rhett had completed and asked a smattering of further questions, which at first Link tried to answer. After one of his attempts turned into a coughing fit, which ended with him retching helplessly until his eyes watered and his nose bled, Rita politely suggested he keep his mouth shut and handed him a tissue to hold to his nose.

Rhett, sitting there watching Link grow even more pale, was struggling with his emotions. His anger was starting to simmer again, but this time it was aimed at the hospital in general. Link had clearly been traumatized and he needed help – medical help and emotional help. Rhett could see it plain as day. Link’s more damaged hand was trembling and the finger’s joint was a horrible shade of dark purple. Why hadn’t they given him any painkillers for that? What about the open wounds on his wrists, what about his ear? The cut on his head, the bruises on his face, his bleeding nose? What _if_ he fainted? _Why isn’t somebody fixing him?_

By the time Rita finally got around to asking Link to take a seat on the exam table his nose had at least stopped bleeding and his face had gained back some color. She had just snapped on a pair of blue gloves and approached him when, with comical timing, somebody knocked on the door.

Rita called for the person to come on in, and did a weary double-take when a police officer stuck their head into the room. She looked so remarkably like Carrie Fisher that Rhett did a double-take too. 

“Charles Neal?” she asked.

Link gave a half-hearted wave. 

Rhett watched the officer’s gaze shift from Link to Rita. 

“A word in the hall?” she asked. Rita took off her gloves and followed the officer out, shutting the door. 

Rhett felt steam coming out his ears. He stared ahead at the wall-mounted array of cryptic medical devices, feeling his eyes bulge. He could not look at Link, who was sitting motionless on the exam table. Many times Rhett had seen Link done up in some pretty fancy makeup, from ‘zombie’ to ‘tooth fairy’ and, over the course of their absurd youth, nearly everything in between. Between shoots they’d sit still, rendered nearly 2D under thousands of watts of studio lighting, mindfully not touching their makeup or outfits. 

Right now, out of the corner of his eye, Rhett could see Link sitting just as still and just as illuminated, but this time it was pain keeping him from touching the marks on his face. And the livid marks weren’t makeup.

Rhett sat on his anger and tried to keep it from bursting forth in a way he’d probably regret later.

He told himself there was a good reason for everything they were doing, from not giving Link a painkiller to making him sit here in pain and uncertainty, from not letting him piss or wash or get a drink to dragging him back and forth through the paperwork and health history and insurance information as if any of that had a single iota of import next to his injuries. 

A cough burst suddenly from Link, startling them both. Rhett stepped over to his friend, wearing a grimace of pity as he watched Link’s face screw up in pain, head bowed, trying to stifle the coughs. 

“Sucks, man,” Rhett said, with a sigh, and brushed his hand across Link’s shoulder before half-sitting behind Link on the exam table. “You’re gonna get through this and you’re gonna be fine. You know that, right?”

Link merely continued to cough quietly, sad noises punctuated by insubstantial intakes of breath and weak gagging sounds. 

Rhett took his hand from his friend’s shaking back to drum nervously against his own thighs. What was taking them so long, out in the hallway? 

He tried to redirect his anger at the people who’d done this to Link in the first place, but he found this to be a terrifying thing to dwell on. Not knowing what had happened, having no clue who the men were or if they’d be caught, left too many questions in Rhett’s mind and made him feel helpless. 

The door opened again; both Rita and the officer entered. Rita’s eyes were now wide open and she seemed to have finally woken up completely. 

“Alright Charles, this is Officer Merril. She’s going to get a brief account of events from you. I’m going to set up a new session here on the computer for you so you can type your responses, okay?” Rita begun to click away on the computer. Link’s attention was on the door, watching warily as people in the hallway passed by. Rhett stood up, closed the door, and opened his mouth. 

“Hold on now, what about – I mean he’s – The man needs _help_ , this is a hospital for god’s sake, not a police station. Can’t this wait ‘til after he’s been treated?” 

“Forensics will be here soon to get him cleaned up.”

“You keep saying ‘soon’ but nobody’s here yet and in the meantime he’s just sitting here being miserable.”

“Your forensic nurse had to stop and pick up some additional equipment,” said Officer Merril. “She really will be here soon. We’re sorry about the delay and I understand your concerns. Criminal investigations complicate things.”

“What about his finger though? It’s frickin’…” Rhett huffed and gesticulated at Link’s hand.

“Just keep the ice on it, dear,” Rita said, turning from the computer and giving Link a gentle pat on the shoulder. “A doctor will be in to get that taken care of soon as the x-ray’s been processed.”

Rita cast a weird look at Link, a sort of poorly-veiled shadow of pity and disgust, and then left, shutting the door behind her. 

Officer Merril settled into a chair opposite Link. 

“I know it’s been a rough night for you so far,” she started, immediately gaining a few points in Rhett’s mental book. “The worst is behind you now. You’ve still got kind of a lot in front of you too, but you’ll be working with people who have your best interests in mind.”

Link merely watched her. 

“We’ll want a more detailed account of events at some point but right now we just need your description of the perps, any details about the route you took to the building you were found in, anything at all timeline-related. You’re not obligated to provide any details, but anything you _are_ willing to provide will help us catch the perpetrator. Or perpetrators.”

Link held up two fingers.

“Two perps,” Rhett provided. “There were two assholes.”

Rhett’s interjection turned Officer Merril’s attention to him. She took a moment to quiz him on his relationship with Link, his relationship with the perpetrators, where he’d been all evening, and then she made both him and Link sign some papers authorizing Rhett to be a part of the interview. 

“But you can ask him to leave at any point,” she reminded Link. “Okay, take a seat by the computer if you would. With your permission I’ll be recording this… I know it seems silly since you’re not gonna be talking but it’s procedure.”

Link nodded and settled into the chair in front of the computer. Merril scooted her chair so she could face both Link and the computer screen, and clicked on a microphone. Rhett hovered near the door, not sure where he should be standing but badly wanting to be able to read Link’s answers. 

“Alright, Mr. Neal, let’s start with what you remember about where you were first confronted.”

Link glanced over his shoulder at Rhett and gave him a _come hither_ motion with his head. Rhett gratefully drew up behind Link’s chair and watched as Link settled his damaged right hand down on the ice pack and started pecking away one-handed at the keyboard.


	12. Tough Questions

“Alright, Mr. Neal, let’s start with what you remember about where you were first confronted.”

Link glanced over his shoulder at Rhett and gave him a _come hither_ motion with his head. Rhett gratefully drew up behind Link’s chair and watched as Link settled his damaged right hand down on the ice pack and started pecking away one-handed at the keyboard. Every time he reached over the keyboard his sleeve came up and out peeped the angry wounds left by the handcuffs. His pecking hand was shaking a bit and Rhett knew his friend was anxious. Rhett was anxious too. 

_They got me between legednare and a bus stop. By an ally._   
_legendair_   
_Legendaire with a thing over the first e_

“Légendaire’s a restaurant,” Rhett supplied, and then immediately wondered if he were allowed to contribute to this process. Merril just nodded at him and made a note.

“Don’t worry about spelling or anything, I know typing one-handed is awkward. What time was it that you were approached?” Link paused a moment before typing again.

_9:30? Ish_

“Okay. Who was the last person you know of to have seen you before you were abducted?”

_John Best_   
_It wasnt John tho he didnt do this_

Merril merely continued taking notes before looking up and asking some very neutral-toned questions about John Best, how Link knew him and how long they’d known each other. As Link typed, Rhett combed through his own memories of John in person (there weren’t many) and of their back-and-forth conversations over the last few hours. There was no way John had anything to do with what had happened to Link. Link would have recognized John’s voice. And John said he’d gone straight up to Milwaukee after dinner.

John had _said_ that, anyways.

Rhett spoke up to add what he knew about John and told Merril about their texting and phone conversations. She made more notes before moving on.

“After you left the restaurant, how many people approached you initially, by the ally?”

_Two men I think. I didnt see them._

“How did you get from that point near the ally to where Officer Benson found you in the bomb shelter?”

Link turned to Merril, astonished, and mouthed ‘bomb shelter?’.

“They found you in an old bomb shelter, yes.”

_They put me in a car. I think we went down the ally gfirst though, before the car, and the men got in too._

Merril scribbled more notes.

_Therewas a driver too, a third guy._   
_Or gal_   
_And then we went into the buillding. But not th driver, they left._

“Okay. Can you tell me what the men looked like?”

_They blindfoldd me right away, I never saw them_   
_I coudnt see thru it and it was dark there were no lights dowm there they just hada f;lashlight_

“But when you were found you weren’t wearing a blindfold.”

_I got it off after they left_

“Can you tell me anything at all about what either of them looked like?”

_One of them has a knocked out tooth. I kicked him in the mouth in the car hewas super mad about it_

“Atta boy,” Rhett said, patting Link on the shoulder. 

_Hes the same one who was having a reaction from a shellfish allergy, thats why they left_

Rhett furrowed his brow. There was something familiar about this particular fact. 

“Wait a second, buddy, John said you had crab salad at the restaurant, is there any connection?”

Link sat frozen for a moment before typing again.

_I threw up.im sure he got some onhim. They were all up in my face_

Rhett grimaced behind his friend. As if being abducted and beaten up wasn’t enough, barfing in front of his captors must have been embarrassing. _Please, let that be all. That’s enough,_ he thought. But Merril continued to quiz Link on anything else at all he could recall about what the two men looked, acted, or sounded like. 

_stereotyping but they just sounded like two nasty middleaged white guys. They talked like theyd done this kind of thing before. They nsaid they had robbed californians before. One of them was smoking_

“Okay. What time would you say they left, before Officer Benson found you?”

Link’s hand hovered above the keyboard, uncertain.

“Or how long do you think you were alone in the basement before you were found?”

_maybe AN HOUR OR TWO, I REALLY DONT KNOW_

Link looked up and squinted at what he’d typed, and turned the capslock back off before continuing.

_they said theyd kill me whn they got back I knowthey meant it_

Merril read what he’d typed and started saying something about how he was safe here in the hospital but Link kept typing, his hand jerky and shaking: 

_the one was so anrgry_   
_he knows where I live and wehere my family livs he as my address he was really realy angry_   
_im adtari gor i my wife andmyk ids_

“Hey,” said Rhett, “slow down a little, bud.”

Link turned in his chair to face Merril and tried to speak.

“Can you – ” is all he managed before coughing took over. 

“Type it out,” said Merril. “Take your time.”

_How do I kbow my family is ok and safe?_

“We’ve connected with their local law enforcement. They have personnel on sight, helping your wife secure any accounts the perpetrators may now have access to. They’ll talk to her too about extra security precautions.”

_Are they going tp tell her what happene to me_

“They’re not authorized to disclose any details at this point, but you can call her.”

_Rhett can you check ob them text her or something_

“Sure, man.”

Rhett shot off a quick text, letting her know Link was thinking of them and wanted to know how they were doing and if they felt safe. As he sent it, Merril picked up her questioning. 

“Okay, so when the perps left you, was there any mention of if they were going to a hospital, or any medical facility in particular?”

Link shook his head.

“Were you able to ascertain the severity of the man’s reaction? Did it seem as if his life was in danger?”

_might have been, he seemed worried_

“And could you tell if it was a contact or oral reaction?”

Link swallowed audibly before replying: _I coulddnrt tell_

Having known Link for the better part of three decades and being able to read some subtle inexplicable thing about Link’s behavior and knowing some of the facts of what had happened, something in Rhett’s mind was turning over uncomfortably. He listened with half an ear as Merril continued her questions; his mind was circling around and around some possibilities that he dreaded to define, but his anger and his concern for Link were trying to force his thoughts there anyways. 

It was while his inner self was getting wrapped up in a previously-unimagined slew of horrors that yet another knock sounded on the door. Link jumped; Rhett put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. 

“This is Patty,” said the voice behind the door.

“Come in,” called Merril, turning in her chair. 

A tall, dark woman with an impressive pile of thin, black braids clipped atop her head stepped into the room, carrying a neat duffel bag labeled ‘FORENSICS’. 

She looked from Rhett to Merril to Link, and offered a smile that was somehow grim and reassuring at the same time. 

“I’m Patty Onyeneme. Which of you is Charles Neal?”

 _The one who looks like they’ve been through a meat grinder,_ Rhett thought, but pointed at Link.

“I’d say you can call me Patty but I hear you don’t have much of a voice right now.” She set her duffel bag down against the wall. “I’m your forensic nurse. I’m here to document and care for your injuries. I’ll be your medical witness to testify if the option becomes available for you to go to court. If you need anything at all, if you have any questions or concerns, I’ll find you help, answers, resources, whatever it is.”

Link nodded. Patty turned to Rhett. 

“James? Rhett?”

“That’s me. Both are me.”

“Officer Benson told me you were with him when you found Charles.” Merril shuffled her chair over so Patty could pull one up too, a respectful distance away.

“That’s right.”

“How do you know each other?”

“We’re friends. Best friends.”

“Okay. I’ll just say this now – Charles has the right to at any point request privacy from anybody not investigating the case.”

Rhett nodded; Link swiveled in his chair just enough for his elbow to bump into Rhett’s thigh. 

“Charles, I’m going to ask you some questions now that might be tough. Your honesty is important.”

Link sat frozen, staring at her.

“We need to ask these questions to make sure you get treated properly for your injuries. Your answers could also really help us in our investigation, but I want you to know that nothing you say will be reported officially unless you give permission.”

When Link still didn’t move, or respond in any way, Patty glanced down at some papers in her lap. When she looked back up and started to speak again, her voice was low and gentle. 

“Over the course of this abduction were you in any way sexually assaulted?” 

Rhett felt a shock of cold, then hot, as he watched Link continue to sit like a statue. Rhett hadn’t expected the question, but now that he’d heard it he fully expected Link to respond with a negative shake of the head, or by reaching over to type _no._ Moments passed; time seemed to warp around those seconds, stretching them painfully. Rhett stared at his friend, waiting for Link to deny it somehow, but Link did not respond. 

“Sexual assault,” Patty continued, “is _any_ type of sexual contact or behavior that occurs without your explicit consent. This includes contact with intimate body parts, exposure of intimate body parts, penetration of a body part by an object, and penetration of a body part by another body part.”

Link looked down and drew his left hand over his face. 

“I ask because we found traces of semen at the crime scene. If you’ve been assaulted, there are extra precautions we need to consider regarding the possibility of sexually transmitted infection, and there would be evidence we would want to collect _before_ being able to address the injuries we know about right now.”

Now Rhett was the frozen one, still staring at Link, imagining vividly that at any moment Link would stop covering his face with his hand and shake his head, _no, that didn’t happen_ , but his body language was loud and clear and what it was saying was not acceptable. 

“That evidence could match up with a profile in our CODIS system. If it doesn’t, we’d create a profile, and that would bring us closer to finding the people who did this before they can hurt somebody else.”

Rhett became aware that Link’s breathing was becoming irregular. 

“If any of that needs to happen, though, I can’t start the process until you can confirm or deny whether…”

Link, hiding behind his hand, gave a very small nod.

“For the record,” Patty said, “I want to make sure I understand, does your nod mean you’re confirming that you were sexually assaulted during your abduction?”

Link nodded again, and brought his broken hand in front of his face too; his next breath hitched in his throat.

“Okay,” said Patty. “I’ve been involved with many cases of sexual assault. I know this is hard. I want you to know you’re safe here, and everything we do now is in your best interest.”

Link sobbed quietly.

“What happened to you isn’t your fault, Charles. You did nothing wrong. And making the choice to disclose sexual assault is a wise move – now you have the option to get the best physical and mental health care. Thank you.” 

Patty may have had her words, but Rhett had no idea what to do with this revelation. 

He felt as if everything – blood, brains, thoughts – had drained out of his head and leached away. He felt compelled to wrap Link in a great hug. He felt compelled to step back and give Link more space. He felt his own heart banging in his chest and he felt a sudden, gripping fear that he was, at this very moment, committing another unforgiveable crime against Link by not knowing how to react. 

The box of tissues rematerialized in his periphery. He stepped around Link’s chair to reach for it, and slid it across the desk until it was in front of Link. 

“Hey, man,” he heard himself say, and he knelt down by Link’s side. He settled a hand on Link’s shoulder and bowed his head. _How did I_ not _see this? How could I have missed that this had happened? What kind of friend am I? Who doesn’t realize when their best friend’s been… when they’ve been…_

Rhett badly wanted to deny the reality of the situation. 

Link probably did too. 

“Charles,” said Patty, “It’s been a looong night for you so far, I know it. We’re gonna make this as quick and painless as we can. At any point you can choose to stop the process, decline any parts you’re not comfortable with – just let us know. Right now, I’d like to hear… well, read… your complete account of what happened, including any injuries you obtained, how you obtained them, the order of events, any details at all that can help us interpret the crime scene and any evidence found there. Then the next step would be to collect any physical evidence on your clothes and your body. I’ll ask for your consent before doing that.”

“We’ve got the short version here already,” said Merril, pointing her pen at the screen. Patty glanced at the computer.

“Charles, if you don’t mind I’ll just take a look at what you’ve said already and catch up with Officer Merril.” 

Link made as if to leave the chair to make room for Patty, but upon getting to his feet he pitched sideways. Rhett and Patty both grabbed for his arms and eased him back down. Patty spent a minute shining a light in his eyes, asking if he felt dizzy or unsteady, if he was in considerable pain, and then came to the conclusion that he was probably just in ‘a little bit of shock’ and should stay in the chair. 

He heaved a shuddering sigh and pushed away from the computer. Rhett reached for the ice pack and plopped it onto Link’s knee. Link kept his head down and his hand iced and Rhett stood by feeling large and helpless as Patty looked at the screen, looked at the officer’s notes, and muttered. 

His phone beeped; he jumped. It was Link’s wife, replying to his text. He held it down so Link could read the message. Apparently law enforcement was at their house. Link’s family felt safe but they were worried about him, and nobody would tell them anything. Link took Rhett’s phone to reply:

_Im ok babe. Love you, cant wait to see you soon. Hug the kids_

Link handed the phone back to Rhett, who sent: _That was Link FYI_

“Okay,” said Patty, finally, drawing back from the computer. “That’s a great start. I have a few more questions I’d like to ask.”

As it turned out, Patty had lied. She did not have a few questions. She had a whole garbage truck full of them. Each time she asked Link a new question, for more details, if he could elaborate, Rhett felt a twinge in his gut twisting itself into a tighter and tighter knot. He knew – he did – how important these questions were, if they wanted to treat Link effectively and pursue justice in the courts. He knew it was important that Link tell them all about the number of times they'd knocked him down. How he’d been secured to the chair. What he’d done during the time the men had taken their brief endodontic leave. What they’d asked him, when they’d broken his finger, what he could remember telling them, what had happened to his blazer and his glasses. 

He managed to evade any mention of the sexual assault itself, though. 

Rhett watched his friend’s hand sitting in front of the keyboard, tapping nervously at the desk, waiting. 

“Thank you, Charles. That’s great info,” said Patty, shifting a bit to reach down into her duffel. “We’re almost done with this process, and then we’ll get your physical out of the way.” She placed something on the desk next to her, facing it away from Link. “So that we know where to start, where to focus, and which steps to take, now I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened when you were assaulted. What your assailant or assailants did in what order, where they did it, how many times… Any details about exchanges in bodily fluids you can remember.”

Rhett could see the front of the box on the desk. It was labeled ‘Sexual Assault Evidence Collection Kit’. Rhett closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Link had grabbed a tissue and was wiping at the tears on his face. 

“I know this is uncomfortable,” Patty said. “Your reaction is completely natural.”

He swiped another one to blow his nose into. The tissue came away spotted with pink.

“Would you like your friend to leave the room?”

Link shook his head. Rhett gave Link’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s start then,” said Patty. “Tell me what you remember.”


	13. The Other Worst Interview

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of and awkward questions about sexual assault.

Link stared at the screen. His hand floated above the keys, hesitating. 

“How about I start by asking some yes or no questions? That might be easier.”

Link nodded, and sniffed. 

“Remember, your complete honesty is important for us to treat you properly.”

He nodded again and wiped his hand across his eyes.

“Were you anally penetrated?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head _no._

“No. Okay. Were you orally penetrated?”

He rubbed his hand across his face again, and in that telling pause Rhett felt a wave of nausea wash through him. Link sighed again and reached over to the keyboard. 

_Yes one ofthem put his dick in my mouth. He cut himself on my teeth so he was bleeding_

Link paused, putting his face back into his hand and leaning down, visibly trying to take deep breaths. 

“Was he wearing a condom?”

_no_

“Did the blood get in your mouth?” 

_Yes he didmt stop he. kept going I think he bled a lot in my mou_

Link jerked back and gagged. Patty reached for the garbage bin and pushed it between his feet, but there was nothing to catch but several sad, mangled noises.

“It’s okay,” Patty said, “take your time. Take some breaths.”

Link heaved once more, coughed, rested his head on his forearm across the desk for a few beats, spat, and sat back up. 

“The man’s blood - were you able to spit any of it out?”

_Not really, I couldnt close my mouth. He put a metal thing between my teeth, I was on my back. my head was hanging off the edge. i think I drooledsome out it went in my nose_

Link paused again to wipe a hand across his eyes. 

_my hands were cuffed .one of them was sitting on me. I couldnt move_

“One of the men was sitting on you?”

_On my thighs facing the other man_

“Facing the one standing by your head?”

_yes_

At this point Rhett had to close his eyes and look away from the screen, feeling distinctly disconnected from reality. Was this a nightmare? And if so, when would it end? The thought of it, the image of what had happened, was so unwelcome in his mind and he didn’t want any more details to go along with it. But... he found himself feeling responsible for knowing the facts of the case. Would he still be able to be an advocate for Link if he looked away at this point? Would he be missing out on truly empathizing if he chose not to experience this second-hand? 

He looked back up at the screen. 

_He came down my throat,_ Link had typed. _I think it went up my nose too. Also got vodka up my nose, i threw up when they put me on the tablenand they used vodka to get it off my face. So theres puke and vodka in my hair_  
_That was the crab he reacted to_  
_Thats all_

“Okay. That’s really helpful. Thank you.”

Both Merril and Patty scribbled notes on their respective notebooks.

 _That’s all._ Rhett stared at the last words Link had typed. That was it. No more. He could see Link trembling under his shirt and knew that retelling what had happened in the bomb shelter had probably been one of the hardest things Link had ever done. _Good job. I’m proud of you. I’m here to support you._ Rhett gave Link’s shoulder another gentle squeeze, aborted words dying on his lips because they sounded hollow, and then he noticed how still his friend was. 

“Hey bud, you breathin’?” he asked quietly, after a moment. “Gotta breathe, Link.” 

He felt Link take a tiny breath. 

“Deep breath. Get some oxygen, dude.”

Link took a deeper, shuddering breath. It was broken and the exhale was more of a sob but Rhett patted him on the back.

After a moment Merril spoke up. 

“Now that you’ve described these events, have you remembered any more details that might help identify the men? Any names? What they were wearing, distinguishing characteristics?”

_Just that the one had a giant dick. huge_

“Was it circumcised?”

Link considered the question, gagged a little, and typed: _I think so_

“Did you notice any tattoos or piercings?”

_No thank god_

“And are you sure you can’t recall anything about either of the men’s faces or clothing?”

Rhett was biting his tongue, wanting to shout that for godsake Link had been upsidown with alcohol and cum in his eyes, glasses gone and in a dark room, of course he couldn’t recall anything about the two shithead perps. He did not want to be asked to leave the room though, and he didn’t want to add any anger to the gentle atmosphere Patty and Merril had managed to create so far. _God, can’t this just end already?_

All Link could come up with was that his main assailant had been wearing pants with a zipper, the dick skin had looked Caucasian, the pubic hair might have been brown or red, and the man sitting on him had been heavy enough to hold him in place with his weight. 

As Merril scribbled more notes, Patty once again thanked Link for the information and said it would be helpful, though Rhett was beginning to feel despair that they didn’t have any more to go on as far as perp description. 

“Oral penetration happened once?” asked Patty. 

Link nodded.

“The other man didn’t do the same?”

Link shook his head. 

“Okay. Any kissing at all?”

He shook his head.

“Okay. Tell me about any exposure or touching of intimate areas of your body. Genitals, buttocks?”

Again, Link shook his head.

“So the men didn’t expose intimate areas of your body or touch you in a sexual manner besides what you’ve already described?”

_I don’t think so_

“Okay. When I say ‘expose’ areas of your body I mean taking clothing off. I have to tell you, they found a belt at the crime scene, measured for a pretty slim person. Is it yours?”

Link shook his head, but looked down and pulled the hem of his shirt up just to make sure. 

His belt was gone. 

Not only that, but the hem of his shirt had also been hiding the fact that his fly was undone.

Upon seeing this, Link jerked both hands towards his face as if to defend himself, and his shoulders scrunched up towards his neck. Rhett could hear him trying, and mostly failing, to control his breathing again. 

“Remember, you’re safe right now,” Patty said gently, though her words had no visible effect. “So you don’t recall that happening?” 

Link shook his head. 

“Do you think there’s any chance you may have been drugged?”

He shook his head, but then shrugged his shoulders miserably. 

“That’s alright. I’d like to take some blood samples right now just to make sure, if that’s okay with you.”

“They already took a blood sample, back in triage,” Rhett said.

“Sadly, triage don’t share,” Patty chuckled, looking apologetic.

Link nodded his assent and Patty went about unboxing a kit of tiny veils. While she set up, Link reached over to the keyboard again. 

_I have to pee real bad fyi_

“He has to pee,” Rhett announced to Patty, who glanced at the screen. 

“We’ll do a urine sample next then,” she said, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Have you voided at all since the assault?”

Link shook his head and looked away as she tied a band around his left arm – the same one they’d pricked in triage. She picked a spot under the bandage from the first draw, swabbed it again with iodine, asked him to make a fist, and went in with the needle. 

Rhett bit his tongue, wondering if it would be a good idea or not to let them know that Link was liable to faint at any moment – but then again, they were probably trained to expect that. Rhett watched Link’s face for signs of faintness. It was hard to tell. He’d already looked pretty ill. 

“Doin’ good, buddy,” he muttered. “She’s almost done.”

Link closed his eyes. 

Shortly, the tubes were full, the needle was out, and Patty had taped a cotton ball into place over the puncture site, below the first one. She spent a moment sticking labels onto the tubes and packing them away before procuring a cup from somewhere within her duffel bag. 

“For the urine sample,” she said. “I’ll show you where to go; it’s just down the hall.”

She stood, and Link rose. Rhett wondered for a moment if he should follow. Peeing in a cup was not something Link would need moral support for. But what if – _God forbid, please no_ – he dropped pants and discovered evidence of something he couldn’t remember happening? What if he panicked? Was Patty going to be there with him? Would she be waiting outside? What if he realized further gross bodily invasion, fainted, hit his head and stroked out on the floor of the hospital’s piss-collecting room, alone? 

He looked at Patty. She was picking up her pen and clipboard, but her eyes were closely following Link. As they left the room Patty walked next to him, arm held out carefully behind him in case his balance failed again. Rhett told himself Patty had this under control, and Link was not going to go die on the floor alone with his pants down. Rhett heard Patty telling Link, as they disappeared into the hallways, that it was important Link did not wash his hands afterwards.

“Oh no,” Rhett muttered to himself. “He’s gonna hate that.”

“Peeing in a cup?” asked Merril, looking up from her notes.

“No, not washing his hands. He’s meticulous about that stuff.”

“Ah. Well, that’s a good thing I guess.”

“Yeah, sometimes…”

“She’s gonna want to scrape his fingernails for any evidence, is why he can’t wash them yet.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause.

“ _Man_ ,” Rhett said, with a heavy exhale, and settled deep into his chair again. 

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“This… _sucks_. I can’t… I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t. This is… god _dammiiiit,_ ” he sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face.

“You two close?” she asked. 

“Yeah, we’re super close, we’ve known each other for decades. Since we were kids. We’re like brothers. Like, we babysit each other’s kids. We have a business together. This is actually a business trip, we’re here for a conference. He’s… I mean I… this is just… This is the _worst_ , and I… I don’t know what to do. For him. I don’t know what to do to help.”

“Don’t expect yourself to know that kind of thing,” Merril said, and looked at him a bit more softly. “Most people have no idea what to do when these things first happen. They don’t know how to help. They’re afraid of making things worse, or not doing enough.”

“Yeah, that’s me right now.”

“Patty will be able to connect you with some helpful resources about that. In the meantime, the most important thing you can do is acknowledge what has happened and do what you’ve done already – be here for him, bear witness if he lets you. It’s important he’s with people he feels safe around and it helps if those people understand what has happened.”

“Yeah.”

“Patty’s going to be giving him some take-home care too – maybe some meds, instructions on wound care. It’s important he follows any directions and it’s really good to have a second person to help remember.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I know this isn’t easy for either of you. Take care of yourself too. We’ll be kicking him out with a lot of resources and support but you’re gonna be flying pretty solo. Caregivers do not have an easy road.”

Rhett lowered his head and stared at the floor. Caring about himself was a far, far cry from where his mind was at the moment. He was very much stuck on asking himself why he’d let Link go out by himself, why he hadn’t called the police sooner, why he hadn’t realized something worse than being punched around and robbed had happened. A _caregiver?_

Caregiver. One who gives care. _But only in retrograde_ , he scoffed to himself. _Only once the damage is already done. Rhettrograde. Appropriate._

Rhett stewed quietly, letting self-deprecating thoughts percolate right through the fact that self-deprecating thoughts were rarely useful and he knew it. Eventually he glanced up at the wall clock, and his mind put aside his own guilt to make room for concern over the passage of time. 

It shouldn’t take very long to pee in a cup. 

He watched the second hand sweep around the face of the clock. With each passing minute, the simmering anxiety in his gut came closer to a boil. He watched the clock; he watched the door. He watched Merril, who was filling out reams of paperwork, and he listened hard to the people passing down the hallway. Ten minutes had gone with no sign of Link’s return. 

Merril noticed his uneasiness and tried to reassure him that procedures could make it take longer, and that in whatever case, Patty would take care of Link and make sure he was okay. 

That was well and good but after ten more minutes, even Merril was glancing impatiently at the door. Rhett was getting ready to charge out into the hallway and track them down when a nurse popped her head in.

“Officer Merril?” she asked, and Merril nodded. “Dr. Onyeneme just wanted to let you know that Dr. Manly ran into them in the hallway and took her patient for a reduction.”

“Oh. Thank you.” 

The nurse left, and Rhett looked at Merril in confusion. 

“Dr. Manly is setting your friend’s broken finger,” she explained.

“What, right now? Just like that?”

“It would seem. It won’t take long. They should be back soon.”

Rhett took a seat but didn’t even try to push away the guilt he felt for not being there with Link. What had the x-rays shown? Would it hurt? Would they put him under? What if he needed surgery? 

He had about two minutes to stew with his thoughts before Patty’s voice came to them from the hallway. Shortly, Patty and Link (holding his hands in front of him like a surgeon) stepped into the room, followed by a real-life GI Joe with a crew cut, massive arms, the largest hands Rhett had ever seen, and a name tag on his lab coat that identified him as Dr. Manly. Despite the man’s height, his voice was gentle and his tone was kind as he handed Patty a few forms and told Link they’d contact him if the post-reduction x-ray showed that anything was off. He gave Link another ice pack, a warm smile, and then he and his huge bulk left them. 

There was now a splint on Link’s finger. A purple bruise was crawling its way up his wrist from the top of his palm. Link looked very tired and disgruntled, but Rhett thought he could have looked a lot worse after having his finger set. 

Patty asked him if he’d have a seat on the exam table as she set up for the physical. As she arranged bits of arcane paraphernalia, Link glanced up at Rhett and made eye contact for a second. His expression troubled Rhett. It was as if he was saying _sorry about all this bullshit._

“Hey,” Rhett said, grabbing Link’s shoulder again, “we’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna get outta here and we’re gonna get us some sleep. Some good ol’ daytime slumber. Get back to the hotel, you can take a shower, we can order in, it’s gonna be fine.”

Link looked concerned, and mouthed something to Rhett.

“Sorry, what?”

_They took my key card. For the hotel._

“Hotel key card was in your… OH. Oh. Yeah, okay.” Rhett turned towards the officer. “Those two shits have Link’s hotel key card. It was in his wallet.”

“Which key card?” asked Merril.

“Link’s card for our hotel.”

“Link?”

“Yeah, it’s… Oh, this is Link, it’s short for his middle… I mean everyone calls him Link.”

“I see.”

“But what should we do? We can’t go back to the hotel now, right?”

“Well, that’s your choice,” said Merril. “The hotel will be notified in any case, and should you choose to return to it they’ll probably post extra security.”

Link tapped at Rhett’s arm. When Rhett looked at him, Link mouthed _I want to move._

“You wanna switch hotels?”

Link nodded.

“Okay, sounds good. I’ll get that figured out, I’ll do that right now.” 

He took out his phone and, feeling useful, began searching for alternate lodgings, absently trying to also listen to Patty talking to Link. She was asking if he consented to the exam being recorded for evidence. Rhett was about to find the safest, classiest, cleanest, most secure damn lodging around, and it was going to have multiple fire exits, security on each floor, contingency plans, and real good room service. Much like peeing in a cup, finding an alternate hotel should have been a pretty swift process. 

“This is Dr. Patricia Onyeneme, RN, Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, and forensic representative for victim Charles Neal III. It is 5:40am on January 11th, 2013.”

Rhett whipped around and looked at the clock. _5:40am already? When did that happen?_

“With Officer Merril attending for investigation and photodocumentation, and victim’s friend Rhett McL…”

“McLaughlin.”

“McLaughlin, thank you, also in attendance. Physical exam to be performed for forensic evidence, documentation, and reporting to assist in the investigation of abduction, battery, and criminal sexual assault upon victim Charles Neal. III. Let the record state that victim is currently nonverbal. See transcript for any typed responses indicated in brackets. Alright,” she said, and set down her recorder. “Let’s proceed. Charles, I’ll be asking your permission each time before I touch you anywhere. You can stop the exam at any point.”

She snapped on a pair of gloves.


	14. The Other Crime Scene

Rhett tried to wrench his eyes and attention back to his phone and the task he’d been given – to find another hotel – but it was mighty difficult, especially since Link wasn’t able to easily respond to, or comment on, any of what Patty was saying, and by this time in their lives together Rhett felt he had somewhat of an ability to answer for Link. Patty started the process by having Merril photodocument Link’s clothes, starting with his hat; Rhett jumped in to point out that the hat had been a donation from their taxi driver. 

After the grey cap was removed and sealed away in a labeled bag, Link scrubbed his left hand through his hair and let out a sad little noise of disgust. After the two examiners went over the rest of Link’s clothes, Patty asked Link to hold his hands out. Merril swooped in with her camera to cover his wrists, and Patty muttered into her device about blood, bruises, and ligature marks, tweezing away at tiny bits of this and that, which made both Link and Rhett wince. 

She then performed the promised scrape under each fingernail, labeling and tucking away near-invisible pieces of what might be evidence into a bottomless Mary Poppins bag. She inspected his forearms for new, non-clinical needle marks before confiscating his shoes and socks and checking out his feet and ankles. 

She moved on to his head next, an area that started off hard and seemed to simply get worse with each new hole she inspected. His right ear was a mess of blood, but her otoscope confirmed ear drums were intact. She spent much longer on his nose, which Rhett knew may be harboring all sorts of evidence at this point, the likes of which Patty rattled off presumably for the sake of the recording. Several swabs were used for each eye. She asked him to move his head around and she combed through his hair for evidence, probing around on his scalp for injuries. She put her gloved hands on either side of his jaw and had him open and close. (Rhett interjected at this point to let her know his jaw had always sounded like that.)

“May I take a look in your mouth now?” she asked, wielding a tiny flashlight. “I won’t touch you yet.” Link nodded. “Thank you. Whenever you’re ready, open up for me…”

She raised her flashlight and peered into Link’s mouth. One look and she barked a laugh. 

“ _Damn_ , son… Gotta be a special kind of stupid to jam your dick in there, them teeth look _sharp_.”

Her comment made Link snort, the closest thing to a laugh Rhett had heard from his friend in several hours. Merril, snapping photos of said teeth, maintained her professional composure, but Patty, looking around with her flashlight, had a brief but passionate muttering fit with herself about stupid people putting their stupid body parts in the most damned stupid places, teeth are not retractable, what did they expect was gonna happen, and Rhett thought he saw Link’s shoulders unwind just a few notches, thought he heard his friend huff out another tiny laugh. 

But then Patty fell silent. She shone her flashlight into his mouth, made some notes, looked back in, made some more notes, and all the while her eyebrows became more and more furrowed. When she began speaking again it was back in her previous professional tone, loud enough for the recorder to pick up descriptions of the bruises across his palate, bleeding, and a newly-chipped back tooth. 

She put down her notes then and approached Link holding a very long cotton swab and the flashlight, and asked him if he would open his mouth again so she could take some samples. 

Link recoiled a bit.

“I’ll just be swabbing your cheeks and gums, and under your tongue.”

Grudgingly, Link opened his mouth. He flinched the moment it touched him but held still. After a minute of scrubbing it around the inside of his mouth, she extracted it and packed it carefully away. Link cleared his throat and coughed a little. 

“Nice job. Second swab is going to the back of the throat.”

Link bit his lip and eyed the swab dubiously. 

“Yeah, nobody likes these,” said Patty, “but it’s an important one. I’ll be as quick as I can though. Open…”

Link did. Patty peered inside with her flashlight.

“Looking pretty inflamed back there. We’ll probably prescribe something to numb that up.” She got the swab an inch into Link’s mouth before he gagged and lurched sideways. Patty reached swiftly for the trash bin and handed it to Link before taking a step back. Link spat and hacked a few times, Patty waiting on the side until he straightened up again, eyes bleary. 

“That’s alright,” she said. “Try again.”

He opened his mouth, looking decidedly fearful and clutching the bin as if it would protect him, and Patty once again went in with the swab. It went further this time – it may have even touched the back of his throat – but the gag that this elicited was violent enough to turn into the dry heaves, followed by more coughing and hacking, as well as a renewed bloody nose. 

“Oh dear,” said Patty. “Don’t let that blood go down the back of your throat. Here, lean forward. Here’s a tissue.” 

Rhett hovered, feeling useless. Link had closed his eyes – possibly to avoid seeing any blood, possibly an attempt to distance himself from what was happening. 

“Try to take some deep breaths,” Patty said. “You’re hyper-aware of your mouth and throat right now, I know. If you’re able to release some of the tension you’re holding that might help with your gag reflex.”

Even Rhett could hear how ludicrous her advice sounded. There would be no releasing of any tension, either for Rhett or Link, while they were in the hospital. Certainly not while they were in this room, with the sexual assault kit open, Officer Merril in her Officer outfit taking photos and notes, and Patty standing there with her endless supply of swabs. 

Everyone in the room was staring at Link at this point, and Rhett realized he was still holding his phone, having intended to do something useful with it. He’d been looking up an alternate hotel for them to stay in for the remainder of the conference. 

_Remainder of the conference? What am I thinking, Link’s not gonna care about the conference._

Rhett cleared his throat and looked at Officer Merril, who was fussing with her evidence camera and tactfully waiting for Link to compose himself before moving in for more photos.

“Um. How long will this… How long will we need to stick around?”

“What do you mean? Like stick around in the hospital?”

“No, I mean in Chicago. I mean like will Link – … will we need to stay for another few days for investigation stuff or whatever, or can we go back to California?”

“You can go wherever you want, whenever you want,” Merril said, “but we’d like the opportunity to ask Charles – Link – some detailed questions on record that might help this investigation. If he wants to report, he’ll want to stay in Chicago for another day at least so we can get that all wrapped up.”

“Okay. Link, what do you think about…”

Link glanced up briefly from his position over the trash bin, eyes watery and exhausted.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll talk later.”

Link lowered his head back down. Rhett drew up to Link’s side and gave his friend’s shoulders a few hopefully-supportive rubs. This was not something he’d ever had to think about regarding his best friend. Whether or not Link wanted to be touched. Wondering if touching him would be the best or the worst thing to do at the moment. Usually it was pretty obvious. 

Link didn’t react, so Rhett gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and tried to crank his attention away from Link and back to his phone, to look for a place to stay that night. That morning. That duration of time before their return to California. 

“Can we try again?”

Link managed a quiet groan but nodded. Patty had an especially determined look on her face as she braced one hand against the back of Link’s head, tilted his face up, and went in with the swab. 

Link gagged right away, but this time managed to stay still as Patty scrubbed the swab across the back of his throat. He made horrible, strangled noises and the rest of his body spasmed a little but he kept his mouth open, and when Patty finally drew the swab away, he merely spat into the bin and rested his forehead on its edge.

“Nice job,” said Patty, labeling the sample. “Good to get that over with.”

Link snorted. A moment later he raised his head, and Rhett saw that his eyes were still watering. Merril must also have seen this but picked up her camera anyway and said she’d like to photodocument the ligatures on his neck now if he didn’t mind.

Rhett could see that Link did indeed mind but his friend just ran the back of his hand under his eyes and gave a little nod. Rhett pulled himself back to the task of re-hoteling themselves. After a minute or two he found a list of what the internet was calling the safest places to stay in Chicago, and a moment after that he’d narrowed the top ten down to the top two. Evidently, safety and luxury went hand-in-hand, and the price-per-night was truly shocking for most options. He made a note of the two options in their price range – or at least adjacent to their price range, this was _way_ beyond what they’d budgeted for – when he heard Patty ask Link to undress on top of the small square of fabric she’d arranged on the ground. 

Rhett glanced up sharply; Link’s face crumpled.

“This is so we can make sure any evidence on you or your clothing will be saved. We’ll just put your clothes on this cloth, bundle it all up, and send it to be analyzed.”

Link set the trash bin aside and stood, but headed to the computer instead. 

_Im not super into depantsing right now_   
_not hiding anything in there, I checked when I was peeing_

“I understand your hesitation,” said Patty, leaning over to read his words. “Would you feel better about undressing if your friend stepped out for this part?”

Rhett tried not to stare too conspicuously at the screen as Link typed more words: 

_Id feel worse_

Rhett felt a brief flush of pride but Patty was unfazed.

“It’s still your choice whether to proceed or not, Charles, but the more evidence we can glean right now the more effective an investigation would be.” 

Link stared at the floor for a moment before responding: 

_I dont wanna be looked at any more_

“I have a gown for you to slip right into. You can even put it on before you take your pants off. See, it’s nice and long.” She picked up a folded gown and shook it out, displaying it for Link to see in what Rhett supposed was intended to be a reassuring way. Link merely gave it a side-eye and swallowed painfully.

_Done left my post rape outfit at the hotel_

“Don’t worry, we have a closet for this kind of situation. I’m sure we can find something that will get you back to your hotel.”

“Want me to go get your stuff?” Rhett asked. “I could go get your stuff.”

_can you stay_

“Yeah of course, man. I’ll pick up our crap later.” 

Patty and Link spent another few moments going back and forth about what they were going to do next. Link was obviously uncomfortable undressing; Patty was adamant that it was all up to him, but kept emphasizing how important it was to treat and record any injuries he had. In the end her persuasive skills won her Link’s shirt. He stood despondently on the square of fabric and begun fumbling with the buttons but with a finger splint this was a lot to ask; Patty quickly stepped in with a fresh pair of gloves to undo them. 

She draped the gown around him the moment the shirt slipped off his arms, but there had been enough time for Rhett to give Link’s back a once-over and for his own gut to come down a notch on the anxiety scale because there hadn’t been any immediately-obvious signs of injury to be seen. 

Patty asked Link to lay down on his back on the exam table, and then pulled the two sides of the gown completely off to either side. This gave Rhett an excellent view of Link’s front, from neck to waist and from shoulder to shoulder. This was a cruel joke on Rhett’s gut, which immediately sprang back up – and beyond – where it had been moments before. He gasped before he could stop himself and made a face before realizing that Link’s own face was two feet away, watching him make said face from upsidown. 

Link looked to the side. Rhett cursed at himself. _I don’t want to be looked at anymore_ , and here he was, gaping down at his best friend and the obvious, horrible testament to the worst night of his life. 

Patty and Merril did a once-over of Link’s front, taking photos and oral notes of the fingernail abrasions and imprints on his skin, from the sternal to hypogastric region and both right and left hypochondriac, lumbar, and iliac regions, none of which Rhett understood at the time but all of which he would later see mention of again in the printed reports and would then Google. 

Googling wasn’t really necessary when it was so easy to see what was right in front of him, but Rhett was trying not to stare – besides which, in the coming nights when sleep was hard, Googling medical terms seemed a logical thing to do and, as a bit of a hypochondriac, was an activity that came naturally. 

Patty asked Link to signal when he felt significant pain, and then she begun poking around across his chest, abdomen, and shoulders, over a number of angry-looking, deeply-bruised areas and one spot in particular where his right collar bone met his shoulder joint that made him jerk when she touched it. 

He gasped, coughed, and struggled to sit up, with Rhett’s help. Patty withdrew her hands, and Link signaled _time out_.

“Are you feeling significant pain in that area?” she asked.

Link crossed his arms over himself and then shrugged a noncommittal _sort of_ with his left shoulder. 

“Is there something you want to say? Do you want to type anything out?”

Link glanced at the computer, made as if to get up, but seemed to decide against it, and merely sat there holding his elbows, strung up like he was bracing against something. 

“Just need a minute?” 

Link responded by rubbing his fingers up his face and into his hair. 

Rhett understood, and if _he_ got it, no doubt Patty did. Obviously the perps had spent some time with their hands on him, fingernails-first; obviously having _more_ hands on him was not an easy thing to lie down and take.

“Take your time,” she said. “You’ve got superficial abrasions and bruising but I’m not seeing evidence of significant internal damage. I am a little concerned about your shoulder though.”

Link took another moment to breathe (and cough) before lying back down. 

Patty poked around a bit more near his collar bone before determining that though there may be a mild separated shoulder, nothing was broken. This was a small relief, which was, unfortunately, followed up with a bombshell. 

“I’m seeing what… appears to be dried semen,” she commented into her device, very casually, “with an upper medial pattern from victim’s pelvic region.”

It took a moment, but Link’s face went from ‘numb’ to ‘dread’ before his hands came up to cover his face. 

Patty turned to rummage in one of the nearby cupboards. 

Link drew his knees up, feet twined together against the table, and seemed to stop breathing. Rhett reached to put his hand on Link’s shoulder, but now that he could see how banged up his friend’s shoulders were, stopped himself. 

“Charles, do you remember this happening?”

Link shook his head.

“This is a Woods lamp,” she said, brandishing what looked like a tiny TV screen. Link, still hiding behind his hands, did not look. “This will make it easier for us to see and document. It’s just an ultraviolet light. I won’t touch you while the lights are off. This should just take a moment.” 

It was a long moment. Link didn’t move from his position, didn’t straighten his legs or shift his hands or open his eyes. Rhett watched as Patty shone the light close to Link’s skin, illuminating a very faint pattern on his friend’s torso that Merril snapped up with her camera from every possible angle. 

“Charles, you said one of the perpetrators was sitting on your thighs,” Patty murmured, eyeing the spots. “This kind of ejaculate pattern might be consistent with that kind of positioning. But, it’s also consistent with what your own ejaculate pattern could be, from a supine position.”

Rhett glanced up at her sharply. Link didn’t move.

“Involuntary erections or ejaculations aren’t uncommon, under extreme duress. Even in the absence of any sexual pleasure.”

Rhett spluttered.

“Wait a sec, you think - … You think Link –”

“I’m presenting possibilities,” Patty interrupted, “and facts. If he doesn’t remember this happening, we have to consider all possibilities, and right now the two most likely possibilities are either the other perpetrator or Charles himself. If it was Charles, there is _no shame_ with this kind of reaction. If it was the other perpetrator’s, it may be the only evidence we have that a second person was involved with the assault.”

Rhett understood her logic, as much as a layperson could be expected to understand a forensic nurse. But a part of him, right or wrong, was still furious that she would even consider the possibility that Link had responded to his assault in such a way. 

“I’ll take some samples,” she said, flipping the lights back on and retrieving more swabs, “and that will help us find out for sure. Is that alright, Charles?” 

Link nodded. He was still hiding behind his hands. Rhett was beginning to worry that Link would leave the hospital with his hands hiding his face like that, and may never show his face again. Even as a metaphor the concept was worrisome – maybe more so. Absently, he watched Patty take the samples and worried about his friend’s future. 

The one saving grace about Link’s frequent face-hiding was that if he could lift his hands to hide his face, it meant his maybe-separated-shoulder wasn’t causing too much pain. 

_Not much of a saving grace_ , he thought. _Maybe the world’s skinniest silver lining._

The exam proceeded. Patty had him flip over so she could go over his back. Patty found little to comment on, except his tattoo, which she asked about, and Rhett explained. After this she let him sit up so she could look him in the eye and try once more to get him to take his pants off. It was a testament to how shitty Link was feeling that he made no wisecracks about her request. His typed replies were adamant that he would not be undressing any further, and that he’d checked himself in the restroom and everything under his pants was just fine. The lack of innuendos in his comments made Rhett’s heart break a little. 

After that exchange, Patty wrapped up her recording of the physical exam. Once she’d turned off the recording device, something heavy in the room seemed to lift a little. Merril put away her camera equipment and begun to scribble away at one last sheet of paperwork before bidding a good morning to Rhett, Link, and Patty. She said she’d be in touch later. She’d been kind, but the amount of tension her uniformed presence had added to the room was very obvious to Rhett the moment she left.

The officer was no longer there. It was almost – _almost_ – like the crime was no longer there either. Like they were just in a hospital room, getting help for a normal, everyday medical emergency.

Almost. 

Of course, the past 12 hours hung over them both – Link, with his memories of what had happened. Rhett, knowing there might be things Link hadn’t divulged and, unless forensics came back with a solid answer, probably never would.

It was time, Patty then said, to finally get Link cleaned up, and wouldn’t that feel good? 

_She has no idea,_ Rhett thought, watching her prepare a whole orchestra of gauze pads, get out a row of bottled mystery liquids, and change her gloves yet again before beginning the process, starting with the remains of the dried semen. Link’s face seemed to reflect what Rhett was feeling at this point: significantly disturbed, pretty upset, but relieved that the official ‘exam’ was over. No new evidence would appear to haunt them. No more surprises. No more uncomfortable questions or considerations. 

Merril did pop back in a few minutes later, having procured a replacement pair of shoes and a likely-looking shirt for Link, from the hospital’s designated closet. It was the thinnest, whitest button-down shirt Rhett had ever seen in his life. Sending Link away in that kind of shirt, in this kind of January weather, was a bit of a cruel joke – especially since they’d confiscated the Mylar blanket as a possible source of evidence. 

As Patty scrubbed away with her million gauze pads, she rattled off instructions for wound care over the next few days. Rhett scrambled to his phone’s “notes” app, despite that she assured them they’d be leaving with all this in writing:

- _get STUFF from pharmacy on Michigan Ave  
-ice shoulder ev 10-15min for 20min for a day then 4hrs for 20mn for 1day CHECK FORMS did not get all this down right dont move arm   
-ice finger for 15-20min every hr but CHECK FORMS GET ICE PACK  
-watch thing on ear for inf, and cuts on face. Keep clean  
-no talking or coughing. No scratchy foods for 4 days   
-left wrist occlusive bandage change whenever dirty not too much pressure wash soap water I NEED TO DO THIS ONE do not get wet, get thing from pharmacy for this  
-right wrist same but he can do that one, do not get wet  
-watch for fever  
-stay hydrated!_

She’d told them that Link would be unable, due to his broken finger, to change the bandage himself on his own left wrist, so had asked Rhett to watch very carefully as she cleaned and wrapped it, as Rhett may be having to clean and re-wrap it in the coming days. By that time, she’d wiped the worst of the blood from Link’s face and his friend was looking marginally better – though it was discouraging to see that underneath the bloodstains there were bruises. 

They had a short discussion about post-exposure prophylactics for STI’s. Patty harpooned Link in the tattoo with a gonorrhea antibiotic before procuring a cup of water and an intimidating-looking host of pills he was to take right there on the spot. He succeeded after a few tries. Patty explained the prescriptions she was writing out for various painkillers and other prophylactics, as well as what Link could expect as far as follow-up STI evaluations. 

She then provided an exhaustive list of resources (as Merril had promised); she talked about the justice system, support groups, specialized programs, licensed therapists, and several other topics which Rhett was sure were incredibly important but all of which went flying over his head (and over Link’s head as well, if his friend’s numb expression was saying anything at all). Exhaustion, overwhelming amounts of information, and probably lingering shock had stuffed Rhett’s brain full to the brim, and he could take in nothing of what she was saying. 

_Christ it’s a lot of work to be raped_ , Rhett thought. _As if victims need to worry about all this shit too._

Patty finished by assuring them both that she would be available to them at all hours, providing her contact info, letting them know that she would be following up with them shortly, and asking if they had any questions.

Being that it was 6:50 in the morning and they both may as well have been sleeping on their feet, they did not have any questions. 

Patty rose from her chair and handed Rhett the intimidatingly-thick stack of prescription orders, after-care instructions, resources, and who knew what else. She then good-heartedly shook out the folded shirt Merril had found for Link to wear out of the hospital. She unbuttoned the shirt and held it out for Link to slip into; for the first time in an hour he made to stand from the exam table. The moment his foot hit the ground his knee buckled beneath him and he dropped. 

For some stupid reason, neither Patty nor Rhett had been prepared for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter  
> its happening  
> they leave the hospital i promise


	15. The Longest Morning

The moment Link’s foot hit the ground his knee buckled beneath him and he dropped. 

For some stupid reason, neither Patty nor Rhett had been prepared for this. Rhett lunged forward, but Patty had less distance to cover. She dropped the shirt and caught hold of his head as he crumbled to the ground. 

“Okay. Okay, Charles. It’s okay. Lay down here, you’re fine, lay on the ground for a moment. Just take some breaths.” Link tried; instead he coughed. Rhett crouched down so as not to tower above his friend, but didn’t know what to do, as per the past 24 hours’ usual. 

“Do you feel nauseous?”

Link nodded. 

“Let’s turn you onto your side then.” 

She helped him roll; he curled into a loose C.

“How about dizzy?”

Link shrugged a little. 

“Do you feel weak?”

He nodded. 

“Can I put this beneath your head?” she asked, wadding up the button-down. He nodded, and she scooted the makeshift pillow into place.

“You’ve had a long night,” she said, after she’d withdrawn. “This has been really stressful, and you’re in shock. Are you prone to feeling faint?”

“Yeah, he kinda is,” Rhett said.

“Okay… This isn’t a surprise for me, then. I’m not too concerned. You’re definitely dehydrated, which is expected. I’d like for you to rest for just a little. You can have your own room, we can pull the shades. We’ll give you some fluids with some painkillers and an antiemetic. You can sleep if you want, or not. Just a little rest before you go back out there. I think that’d do you good.”

Link shifted to face her as if he were about to say something, but just coughed, and then gagged, and then lay his head back onto the shirt-pillow to regain his breath. 

“We’ll numb up your throat too,” Patty said. 

In the face of what had just happened, there was really no other logical way forward. And so, Patty waited by Link’s side with Rhett for a few minutes until two nurses with a gurney arrived at their room. She finally bid them both goodbye and said she’d be in touch. They loaded Link up onto the device and wheeled him down a couple hallways, Rhett (clutching the paperwork, and the pair of shoes Merril had brought Link, and a handful of tissues he’d nabbed on the way out) keeping up next to Link’s head, not that Link noticed – his eyes were closed. They arrived in a dark room, transferred Link to the hospital bed, and, after a small amount of fussing over which arm to use (the one with two punctures already, or the one with the broken finger? They went left; better not to mess with a broken bone), hooked him up to an IV, through which flowed ‘fluids’, whatever that meant, and the promised anti-nausea. 

Three chest electrodes, two spritzes of throat-numbing spray, one blood pressure cuff, one pulse-ox, and a heated blanket later, Rhett and Link were alone together in a dimly-lit hospital room. 

Rhett, sitting on a chair pulled up to Link’s bed, was tracing the various cables and tubes with his eyes, as if to make sure they were all coming from, and leading to, the proper place. As if he would know. Really, probably, his brain was waiting for the next thing to come along – the next piece of bad news, the next thing they’d have to worry about, the next decision to be made. But the room was dim and quiet, and nothing at all was happening now, except that Rhett’s eyeballs were having a very hard time holding still.

Link was boring a hole in the ceiling with his stare. 

Rhett dragged his eyeballs up off the situation that was Link, up into the air – the darkened room, the closed door. He heard muffled hospital noises seeping through the walls from outside, but those noises weren’t meant for them. The machine Link was hooked up to had a screen, and the screen was showing little numbers and charting stuff on a cool green line, but it wasn’t making any bleeps or blips, no red alarms or flashing lights. 

He had no idea what was to come once they left the hospital. He didn’t know what the next day would bring, let alone the next week. Month. Year. Lifetime. Whatever was about to happen, no doubt it would be hard. Very hard for Link, obviously, and Rhett planned to show up for his friend in whatever way possible. How would he do this? What would be needed of him? Merril had mentioned that there were some resources out there to help caregivers through these situations. To Rhett that sounded like handing a garden hose to a toddler and sending them to put out a dumpsterfire. 

But right now - now, with the shadows and the quiet, the privacy and a bit of time – all the gears in his mind and chest that had been grinding away for the past few hours seemed to come to a halt, and he allowed himself the small mercy of lowering his head and simply breathing for a moment. The machines hooked to his friend were giving a thumb’s up on Link’s vitals, and though vitals wouldn’t count for anything if the mind wasn’t alright, right now it was enough. 

After a few moments of breathing, Rhett looked back up. 

Link was still working on the hole in the ceiling. 

Rhett cleared his throat. 

“I’m thinkin’,” he began, and was heartened when Link glanced his way, “now would be a good time for me to go get our stuff from Park Westin.”

Link’s gaze shifted past Rhett’s shoulder. Rhett hoped the glazed look was just the result of the painkillers dripping into his arm. 

“Scoot it over to our new hotel. I still gotta pick a place, we’ve got two options. I’ll get us booked and moved. So when you’re ready we can just go straight to the new place and get some sleep.”

Link plucked at his hospital gown. 

“Yeah, I’ll grab something for you to wear on the way out. You pack an extra pair of glasses by any chance?”

Link nodded.

“Of course you did. I’ll bring those too.”

Link almost – _almost_ – smiled, and reached across his body towards Rhett with his right hand, splint and all. Rhett tentatively reached to meet Link’s hand with his own and fumbled it briefly in an attempt to execute one of their handshakes in a way that would be heartfelt yet painless for Link.

At this moment, Rhett, watching their hands together, trying not to do more damage, trying to avoid at all costs jostling the splint, trying to make the handshake seem genuine and not so stingy as to make Link think Rhett thought Link was disgusting right now, that Rhett remembered what was in his pocket, and he could have slapped himself. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he said, and froze. 

Link’s eyes widened fearfully.

“No, nothing bad, I’m just remembering _right_ now – holy shit I’m such a dumbass. Here, I – ”

Rhett withdrew his hands to fumble awkwardly in the front pocket of his tight jeans, Link looking on in confusion. 

“What has it got in its pocketses?” Rhett teased, and then withdrew his hand. “Check it out, Bilbo.” He reached out and carefully placed the wedding ring back into Link’s hands. Link, realizing what it was, immediately adopted a happily flabbergasted grin which was beautiful and short-lived. Then he teared up and begun to cry. 

“Aw dude,” said Rhett, “I didn’t mean to make you do that. Stop it, man.”

 _I’m relieved_ , mouthed Link, snagging the tissue Rhett was waving at him. _I’m happy._

“Sorry I forgot to tell you I had it this whole time, I can’t believe I didn’t… I guess I was distracted.”

_I was too._

“Why didn’t you tell Patty? Or Merril? That you were missing it?”

 _I told Dr. Manly. I remembered when he was fixing this, I saw his wedding ring,_ mouthed Link, waving his splint in the air. _He said he’d report it –_

Link was interrupted by another coughing fit. Rhett thought it was unfair that even mouthing words would cause coughing. 

“That spray ain’t working, huh? Gotta stop pretending to talk,” he said, grimacing. Link stifled himself and immediately disregarded Rhett’s advice:

_How did you get this? Where was it?_

“Where was it? On the floor, in the bomb shelter. Knew it was yours. I grabbed it before we hauled your ass outta there and then totally forgot about it.”

_They were gonna sell it._

“Well, sounds like they had big plans to do a lot of things. You fucked ‘em up pretty good though.”

The moment the words left Rhett’s mouth he wanted to snatch them back. It was possible his word choice could not have been worse. He opened his mouth to apologize but Link was acting as if he hadn’t even heard Rhett, gazing pensively at his wedding band. 

Rhett cleared his throat. 

“You been hooked up for a few minutes now, how you feeling?”

Link glanced at the IV bag, and then slipped the band carefully onto his left ring finger. 

_Tired._

“Still feel sick?”

Link shook his head slightly. 

“Good. Okay, I’m gonna go move our stuff. Try to stop at the pharmacy too. I’ll be quick as I can. I’ll make sure they know I’ll be back. If they try to kick you out before I’m back, barf or something.” 

Link crooked a tiny smile, which to Rhett, at the moment, meant nearly everything. Thus armed, he patted his friend (on the foot, where, to his knowledge, there were no injuries to disrupt), went through the door, closed it, and found himself back in the world of the hospital. 

He stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, considering the wisdom of leaving Link alone like this at such a time. He easily recognized that his idea to take this time to transfer their crap from one hotel to the other was partly an excuse not to have to sit there in the silence and the dark and figure out what to say, what to do.

He did not know what to say or what to do. He was, he knew, panicking just a little bit about this. He wanted to be comforted by Link’s recent smile, his happy tears at the return of his wedding ring, his small relief. But Link was doped up on shock and painkillers. Eventually, both of those would wear away, and then what would Link be able to lean on? 

Rhett, of course. His best friend. Who was currently seriously doubting his own abilities to be that support. Right now there was some clarity. (Undoubtedly, Link wouldn’t want to be dragged from one end of Chicago to the other while they transferred their luggage. Rhett knew his friend wasn’t interested in showing up, however briefly, at Park Westin.) But once they got to their new place? And after _that?_

Rhett let go of the doorknob and returned to the front desk, where he explained where he was going, who he’d be returning for, and left his contact info with them, just in case. Then he shrugged back into his coat, went out to the slushy curb and hailed a taxi, thinking all the while: 

_What the hell am I going to do?_

As the taxi brought him to Park Westin, he wondered: 

_How the fuck am I going to do this?_

As he entered Park Westin, went to their rooms, and packed up their stuff, he thought: 

_Fucking show up right now, assholes, I fucking dare you, show up right now with Link’s keycard and I will carve out your eyeballs and hang you from your nutsack in the shower you shitbag bastards_

Rhett took a short break from murderous thoughts to sit on the end of Link’s bed and weep into one of Link’s worn shirts, which just happened to be in his hands at the time. Link wouldn’t want him to wipe his snot and tears on the shirt, even though it was already ‘dirty’, but in the grand scheme of things, like most things, it didn’t matter, and Link would never know. 

Sniffing, he shuffled back and forth on his phone between the two hotel options before landing on the one called Sentry, the sole reason being that Sentry allowed dogs and the other one did not, and Rhett had a wild hope that they’d run into a friendly dog or two and that it would cheer Link up. 

Once he’d packed up their stuff and checked out, his taxi took him to their new paranoia-style hotel. Checking in was a difficult, drawn-out process, involving a key code to get into the building, an escort to get to the front desk, a host of questions and signatures and even getting his photo taken before being given the key codes for the two adjoining rooms Rhett had booked. It was gladdening to see how seriously this place took their own safety and security protocols. They told Rhett what the total would be for three nights and _that_ was not gladdening at all. 

It must have shown on his face. He’d explained the bare bones of what had happened to them, and the clerk squinted thoughtfully at him before suggesting he pay when he leaves. This would just delay the inevitable, Rhett knew, but it was a small mental break he took gratefully. 

He told them, a bit self-consciously, that he and his ‘friend’ were slightly internet-famous and that he’d be glad of the staff’s discretion in helping them avoid any news whatsoever getting out about where they’d stayed or, god forbid, _why_. The clerk assured him that discretion was written into their job description and that it would not be a problem.

An escort took him up to their suite, explaining along the way the various security features the hotel boasted, such as code-only elevator access, closed-circuit cameras, and a 24-hour security team. 

Rhett dropped his stuff in one room, Link’s stuff in the other. Deciding to book two rooms had not been a cheap decision but he had no idea if Link would want his own space or not. Now he wondered if it would have been smarter to get _one_ room – not only because of the expense, but what _if_ Link decided he wanted to be alone? How in the world would Rhett keep an eye on him if Link locked himself in his own room? How would Rhett know Link was taking the right medications at the right time, that he wasn’t icing himself too long, that he wasn’t sitting there eating potato chips and doing push-ups and basically ticking off all the boxes of things Patty had said _not_ to do? 

_Oh my god Rhett shut up he ain’t gonna do that._

He opened Link’s suitcase and had an argument with himself about which shirt Link would prefer to wear back to the hotel. He picked the button-down flannel because it looked warm, but then decided against it because buttons would be hard. Casual t-shirt? No buttons but chilly and would involve more arm movement. He went back to the flannel. Link wouldn’t have to button it if he didn’t want to. Rhett grabbed one of his own zip-up hoodies too, as Link’s warm jacket was currently missing in action.

On the way to the pharmacy, Rhett continued to worry about how many things there were to remember to do, to not do, to address. Morning was breaking over Chicago and the skies looked cloudy. Rhett _felt_ cloudy. His brain was in a fog. He’d been away from Link for fifty minutes so far and knew he had to get back, but his stop at the pharmacy was not a quick one; the pharmacist had all kinds of instructions and warnings to share with Rhett about the medications he was picking up. That, and every time Rhett decided he had everything they needed, something else would pop into his tired mind. What was the best kind of ice pack for a shoulder? What about for a finger? Which size gauze roll, how many feet, what kind of tape, and also where the hell were those bag things people put over their casts so they can shower? 

They were, said the pharmacist, right there on the end cap, sir. Rhett, feeling exhausted and a bit surly, grabbed the hand-shaped one and checked out. 

He was anxious all the way back to the hospital, sure that the staff had needed to move Link along to make room for some other poor soul, and that Link was shivering on the curb or at least shivering in the waiting room or wherever it was patients waited for a ride once the medical system had pooped them out. 

Rhett was very relieved, if a bit surprised, to find that Link was right where Rhett had left him: in the same darkened room, under the same heated blanket, wearing the same robe and IV and other medical paraphernalia, and back to boring the same hole in the ceiling that he’d been working on before. 

The one surprise was that Patty was in the room too. She greeted Rhett kindly, pulled him aside, and quietly explained what she and Link had been ‘discussing’ – rather, what she’d been having a largely one-way conversation with Link about. Though the police were already on the case to find the men who had kidnapped, brought violence to, and stolen from Link, they had not yet been asked to officially file a rape claim. Whether or not this happened would be Link’s decision. Patty was fairly confident that they now had the evidence to level charges – once the results came back they’d know more – and she told Rhett that though it was Link’s decision, she hoped he’d decide to file the claim. She said it could make the difference between an easy plea bargain and a near-impossible bail, were the perpetrators caught. 

Rhett nodded as if he were duly noting her words, when in reality he was stuffing them in with the rest of the mess his brain was presently filled with. He’d be lucky to make sense of _any_ of it later. 

A nurse came in and pulled the various pieces of equipment off of Link’s body. This time, Link disrobed from a seated position, and Rhett helped him into the flannel he’d brought. Patty swooped in to fuss with the buttons, muttering about how cold it was outside. Rhett had been holding his zip-up hoodie, ready to throw it over Link’s shoulders, but… Patty was right. It was pretty stupid cold out. He took off his own coat and pulled on the zip-up. Link would need the warmth of an actual winter coat more than he himself would. The shoes Merril had found seemed to fit Link well enough, and though they weren’t exactly appropriate for slogging through the slushy streets of Chicago in January, they were better than the alternative. 

Thus furnished, both Rhett and Patty hovered nervously as Link found his feet, this time looking quite a bit dopier but somehow more steady. He blinked hard a few times and gave a thumbs-up when Patty asked him how he felt. She leaned around him to discreetly remind Rhett to have Link take one of the prescription painkillers right away when they got to their hotel. Rhett nodded and, hand on Link’s back, followed Patty down the hall, all the way back to the desk, where they beeped Link’s bracelet barcode and officially dismissed them from the hospital. 

Rhett waved to Patty, and then turned towards the doors. 

He’d _been_ looking forward to getting out of here for good, after the approximately fourteen-century-long morning they’d spent going through all they’d just gone through. Now that he faced the doors, Link by his side, he was suddenly very uneasy about leaving. It was hard to leave knowing how tenuous Link’s condition was, knowing the number of professionals right here within spitting distance, the kind of help that could be provided. Hard to think about how once they left this place, all of that responsibility would, for now, fall squarely upon Rhett’s shoulders. 

Link had crossed his arms over himself and was leaning slightly into Rhett, eyes closed. 

“Jesus Christ I forgot your glasses,” Rhett sighed. “Such a dumbass. Sorry, bo.”

Link shrugged. 

“It’s not a long ride. We’ll be there quick.” He led Link through the double doors, out into the grey morning chill, the wind and slush and the rush of strangers hustling by. 

Link became, if possible, even smaller, and seemed to be trying to disappear into Rhett’s coat. 

Rhett put one arm out for a taxi, and pulled the other gently around his friend.


	16. House of Guinness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab a snack, this one is long. To symbolize how exhausted Rhett is*!
> 
> *I'm too lazy to find a good chapter break

Besides an uncomfortable speed bump at Sentry’s front desk, getting from the hospital to their rooms was a silent process. Link wasn’t communicating, and Rhett was extremely occupied trying to not drop any of the thought-balls he was currently juggling. 

What happened at the front desk was that the next shift had started and a new clerk was on duty. Rhett had to explain to her why it was he hadn’t paid when he’d checked in earlier, and had to also tactfully explain why his silent friend had no ID and also why he’d prefer not to have his photo taken. 

The clerk looked unsure, and said she’d have to confer with her associate. 

Her associate, it turned out, had been laying down under the desk. Her associate was a large black lab named Guinness, who looked about as dopey as Link did at the moment. Guinness was very happy to welcome them both to Sentry, regardless of their payment status or the presence of a photo ID. He panted happily at Rhett just long enough for a few pets, but Guinness’s real end goal was apparently Link’s knees; he sat down on Link’s feet and leaned heavily into his legs, throwing his head back and staring up with the kind of adoration that only a dog can legally pull off. Link melted into a crouch; Rhett took advantage of Link’s distracted state to mutter back and forth with the clerk. 

In the end she said that, judging by how Link was interacting with Guinness, she trusted he was a good person and wouldn’t be a threat to anybody else. Besides, Sentry probably had some decent photos of Link by now just from the security cameras. 

Rhett couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but either way he was grateful. 

Once he’d peeled Link away from Guinness and gotten them up to the rooms, Rhett opened Link’s door first.

“We got a suite. Our rooms are connected here,” he said, stepping in and pointing at the door joining their rooms. “I put all my crap in that one. We can keep the door open or closed, whatever you want. We both got bathrooms and kitchenettes, but I say we just order… Hey, you okay?”

Link had stalled out in the doorway, staring across the room. He gestured inarticulately at the far wall, where the windows were. They were huge, floor-to-ceiling windows, which looked out on one of Chicago’s fancier avenues, though admittedly nothing looked fancy when it was covered in dirty snow. Somewhere, low in the eastern sky, the sun was finally, definitely up. Down on the boulevard, people were shuffling along against the wind, hoods pulled up over their faces. 

Rhett glanced back at Link, and understood. His friend was afraid of who might be able to look in at _them_. He went to Link’s windows and immediately drew the heavy curtains closed. 

At this, for the first time in what must have been almost twelve hours, Link begun to move independently of the whims of anybody else. No shady men, no officers, no medical staff hanging over him telling him what to do. No need to follow Rhett around like a lost dog. He was safe, in his own space, with his own stuff, and his own time. He pulled his extra pair of glasses out of his suitcase and slipped them carefully on before checking that the door between his room and the hallway was indeed locked and bolted. 

“So Patty says you should take some of those painkillers she ordered for you right away,” Rhett said, and begun shuffling through his own baggage. “She ordered you some other stuff too… Here’s that throat spray. The pharmacist says only use it if you can’t stop coughing. Here’s… Here’s the painkiller. Can’t pronounce it. Says you should take one every twelve hours.”

Rhett shook the little pill case; it rattled angrily. Link filled a coffee mug with water while Rhett scanned the various warnings on the bottle before wrestling the cap off and shaking one into Link’s palm. 

While Link continued to unpack, Rhett tried to do the same. He stuck the ice packs in the freezer and decided to put the rest of the supplies and medications on a table in his own room, as if it had been the most convenient, off-handed option at the time, and not at all because he wanted to keep an eye on when Link was taking the meds.

A few minutes went by during which Rhett moved like a broken automaton, going through the motions of settling in. He was being incredibly inefficient. This was because by this time his brain was slogging along on fumes and was eeking out just enough power for Rhett to be completely distracted trying to pay attention to whatever Link was or was not doing. 

Link, for his part, seemed to be doing just fine. He hadn’t fainted, or stumbled, or curled up in the corner and gone comatose. These were the sorts of things Rhett was sure were about to happen, and that he was bracing for. He felt the overwhelming need to be ready to handle whatever Link needed handled, with grace and discretion. 

Eventually Link popped in to return Rhett’s winter coat, mouthing a _thank you_ , and then gestured to Rhett’s phone and asked silently if he’d gotten any texts from Link’s wife. 

Rhett checked, and wasn’t surprised to see that he’d gotten texts from several people over the last hour or so, including both of their wives. He handed the phone to Link and busied himself with the room service menu. He figured once the sick, anxious feeling in his own gut went away, he’d be starving. He had no idea at all how Link was feeling about food right now but he’d have to eat at some point. 

The room service menu was on par with what he’d expect from the price they’d be paying; the truffle-spiked cornbread biscuits with Iberian ham gravy sounded theoretically delicious. Rhett went into Link’s room to use the provided phone, and called the service number to quietly ask if they had any benign-sounding soup, and if there were any jars of peanut butter on the premises. 

Rhett hung up as Link came in to return Rhett’s cell.

“You get in touch with her?”

Link nodded.

“Did you… Did you tell her what happened?”

Link shook his head sadly. 

Rhett nodded. Probably that wasn’t a conversation to have over texting. 

“I just ordered some food,” he said, “for whenever you feel hungry.”

Link made a face. 

“I know, dude,” said Rhett, as Link turned towards the folded clothes he’d stacked on his bed. “But you gotta eat at some point, just sayin’.”

Link gave him an _alright mom_ sort of look before starting to unbutton his flannel. Rhett watched him struggle clumsily for a few moments with the first button before he stood to help.

Link lowered his arms and let Rhett deal with the buttons. Rhett helped Link out of the shirt, and then took his cue to leave Link’s room. He pulled out the sheaf of papers from the hospital and put them on his desk, then sat down with his phone to see what his own wife had been sending him. 

She’d sent her concern, of course, having heard that _something_ had happened, from Link’s wife. It went without saying that Rhett wasn’t going to disclose what had actually happened until Link had given him permission – or had gotten the courage to tell them himself. For now, Rhett assured her that they were safe and resting. 

Link knocked on their adjoining doorway to get Rhett’s attention. He was leaning into Rhett’s room, wearing nothing but one of the hotel’s soft grey towels that felt as if they were made of down from the armpits of angels. He held up the wrist that still had the hospital bracelet, and his other hand made a snipping motion. 

“Hmm… I don’t got scissors… or a knife. I got a nail clipper.”

Link shrugged, and waited as Rhett went to his bag to pull out the clipper. 

“They don’t make those easy to take off, do they?”

Link held his arm out and Rhett begun cutting away at the plastic band. It was incredibly difficult not to stare at the bruises and scratches across Link’s front. It seemed unbelievable that this was his best friend standing next to him. 

“You goin’ to bed? Or takin’ a shower?”

 _Shower_ , Link mouthed. 

“You got everything you need?”

Link nodded.

“I got you a shower thing at the pharmacy,” Rhett said, reaching for the hand-shaped cast cover. He helped Link get the plastic cover over his splint, and bit back questions about how Link was going to keep his other wrist’s bandage dry, if he’d need help washing his hair, if he felt steady enough to be safe. There was a line somewhere between being supportive and being invasive and Rhett did not know where it was. 

Rhett had never in his life been so worried about a shower. He leaned on the doorframe between their rooms, staring at his phone, which was blank, trying not to look too much like he was actually monitoring what was happening in Link’s bathroom, and probably failing. Notably, Link didn’t shut the bathroom door, and Rhett could see Link’s distorted reflection in the mirror as his friend rehung the towel and pulled open the shower curtain. 

Possibly it was shadows, but there was _something_ dark and purple across Link’s thighs. 

Rhett’s stomach clenched; Link stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain. Bruises from the man Link had said had been sitting on him? The man who’d jizzed all over Link’s front? (Rhett was carefully not considering the possibility that Link had done that to himself.) He sunk down to the ground, still leaning against the doorframe, listening to the water hit the shower walls and Link’s body.

Rhett dropped his phone into his lap and closed his eyes, trying to feel relieved. He _knew_ this shower must be doing Link a world of good. He knew how important cleanliness was to his friend. Especially after what had happened to him. This was a good thing. 

Logic wasn’t working. Rhett felt as if he were sitting in a pool of his own disquiet, like he were sweating it out and soaking it back in, a perpetual-motion machine of anxiety. He felt paralyzed with exhaustion and responsibility. He felt dirty and sick. He felt like he wanted to take one of the sleep aids the pharmacist had suggested for Link, and then he felt guilty for his own self-pity when Link was the real victim. He wished Link’s wife were here. He wished he could hand all this off to her. She’d know what to do and what to say. Instead, Rhett felt the weight of the next few days stretching before him, warped with unknowns. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be here for Link; it was that he was so sure he’d fail and make things worse because he didn’t know what he was doing. 

He tapped his head against the door frame a few times and stifled the urge to weep. The last thing Link would need right now would be to step out of the shower to find his friend – the one person who he was currently relying on – losing it. 

Rhett pushed himself to his feet and made an honest attempt at pulling himself back together. He stripped out of his street clothes (keeping one ear on Link’s shower) and washed his face. He finished unpacking and organizing his things, and arranged all the various packets and papers they’d left the hospital with on his desk. He even remembered that a guy should drink water once in a while, and got as far as filling a coffee mug with water before Link turned the shower off and Rhett abandoned all thoughts of hydration in favor of worrying that Link would trip and break his neck while stepping out of the stall. 

Rhett resumed his post lurking in the doorway between their rooms, trying not to look like he was monitoring Link’s reflection. Thankfully, he realized before Link did that he was wearing nothing but boxers, having made it only halfway through the process of getting into his sleepwear. 

He knew he’d need to re-wrap Link’s wrist but didn’t want to barge in on Link’s privacy, so after rerobing himself he continued to lurk in the doorway, pretending to be occupied with his phone as Link finished drying off and begun what sounded to be the hellish process of attempting to brush his teeth. 

Rhett grabbed the throat spray. 

“Knock knock.”

Rhett peered into the bathroom; Link was hanging over the sink heaving, toothbrush in hand, eyes screwed shut.

“Here’s the, um, that numbing spray stuff Patty mentioned. If you want to try it.”

Link grabbed it, aimed it into his mouth, and spritzed twice. He made a face, gagged, leaned over the sink and breathed for a few moments. Rhett wasn’t sure what to do with himself, so he went over to the thermostat and turned the temperature up one single degree, because Rhett was worried that the ice packs he’d be throwing at Link once Link went to bed would make him too cold. From the bathroom, Rhett heard Link attempting to once again brush his teeth. It didn’t sound much easier than before. Nevertheless, Link kept at it for a good five minutes. Rhett didn’t like imagining why Link was being so adamant about cleaning his mouth, even if it meant gagging every few seconds. 

“Imma re-wrap your wrist,” he called to Link, staring at Link’s bed. “Let me know when you’re ready, I got all the stuff out.” The bed was furnished with a sheet and a comforter. The sheets were probably a million thread count or whatever fancy sheets were made of, and the comforter was probably stuffed with more angel armpit hair, but Rhett was worried about whether or not it would be enough. He searched the closets and came up with a woven throw that had some actual weight to it. He tucked it between the sheet and the comforter, fussing quite a bit more than he would have otherwise had he not been doing the equivalent of twiddling his thumbs. 

At long last, Link left the bathroom wearing his pajama bottoms and a mercifully lose t-shirt. His hair was an unkempt mess, the bruises on his arms and face did not look any nicer just because they were cleaner, and his eyes had taken on a haunted, sunken look that brought Rhett right back to their college days pulling all-nighters and cramming for tests. The splint on his right hand and the bandages around that wrist looked dry; he’d already peeled off the bandages over his left wrist. 

Only the bedside lamp was on in the room, but still the wrist looked bad. The force it would have taken, Rhett thought, for that kind of damage to be done. The desperation to escape, the unyielding metal. 

His gaze leapt to Link’s face and in that moment it seemed impossible that something had been causing Link to do that kind of damage to himself. Bruised and tired, he nevertheless looked calm. A portrait in praise of opiate painkillers. 

“Goin’ to bed?”

Link nodded.

“They should be delivering food any time now, you hungry?”

Link shook his head, looking a bit ill at the thought. 

“Okay, well… let me wrap that up quick. Light’s better in the bathroom, let’s go back in there.” Link turned back, and Rhett grabbed the gauze and tape. Link sat on the toilet seat, shoulders hunched, and initially tried to help get the gauze out but in the end he gave up and merely watched as Rhett tried to remember what to do. 

“First we gotta wash my hands,” Rhett muttered to himself, and did so, lathering up with the angel-armpit-scented soap, which almost covered the odor of antiseptic and toothpaste radiating from Link. “Then your wrist… I know you just showered but you don’t wanna take any chances. You okay if I wash it again?” 

Link gave a half-nod.

Rhett double checked the water’s temperature, hesitated for a moment, and gently guided Link’s wrist under the faucet. Link almost successfully hid his grimace.

“Just don’t want any scars. Patty said keep it clean as possible to prevent scarring,” he murmured, pumping out more soap.

On the surface of the situation, Rhett wanted to be as quick as possible because this was undeniably awkward. They’d begun to make their living on embracing awkward, but usually they were in front of a camera. Practically, though, Rhett had to move slowly and be gentle. This wasn’t something to rush through; keeping the open wounds clean was something he’d been charged with, and he wasn’t about to shirk his duty. 

“Remember Travis from second grade?”

This drew an immediate chuckle from Link. Rhett smiled and turned his friend’s wrist over, spreading a film of bubbles over the raw wound. 

“Yeah, you know where I’m goin’.” 

Link nodded, his face half-grin and half-grimace as Rhett scrubbed the pads of his fingers gingerly over Link’s wrist.

“What a dork. Remember he’d always be up in that… what was that, a cypress? Out on the playground? Always tryin’ to find a way to get up to that third branch. Remember he needed to have a growth spurt before he managed.”

He turned Link’s wrist again and inspected the depth of the abrasions there, scouring the deepest wound with a fresh application of bubbles. 

“And then that one time he slipped and fell and scraped his arm, and it was bleedin’ all over but he acted like he meant to do that, remember? He was all like _the tree gave me a tattoo!_ He was… And he went on about it so much he convinced a bunch of first-graders to get a tree tattoo too?”

Link snorted.

“That line of boys who all wanted… their own tattoo, they totally believed him. They all followed Travis over to the tree.” One more sweep over everything with his thumb, and Rhett felt he’d done what was needed. He held Link’s wrist under the stream of water, making sure all the soap was rinsed away. “Were you there for that, were you watching? They all, like, scraped their arms against the bark with Travis standing there like _the tree gave_ me _the best tattoo, it doesn’t like y’all as much_. Such a dork. And then…”

He turned off the water and leaned in to inspect the wrist. Blood was seeping out of the deeper cuts again, but it was a slow seep. 

“Hold that up and let it air dry. Hold it up above your heart.”

As Rhett unfurled a roll of gauze, Link made the act of holding his left arm up above his heart into a dramatic display of struggle and adversity, letting out a small, disgruntled groan and slouching forward. The groan had been the first vocalization Rhett had heard from Link in some number of hours, and it was probably a lot more cheering to Rhett than Link had meant it to be. 

“And then Travis got in big trouble because those kids with the scrapes, their parents all called the school and asked why the hell they let the kids get all scraped up during recess and they all told on Travis? My brother said it took Travis _years_ to just frickin’ admit he fell outta that tree. All that time he kept on with his dumbass tree tattoo story.”

Rhett squinted at the wound; it had stopped bleeding. 

“Ointment time.” He squirted a blob of the stuff onto his finger, took Link’s hand down closer to the counter again, and begun dabbing it onto wherever the skin was open. “Ointment’s gotta be one of the worst words of the English language… Ointment. Up there with moist. And ointment is moist. Good thing it’s so handy. There we go, you been ointmented. Now we just gotta… get that special fancy gauze…” 

He grabbed the strip of occlusive gauze and lay it very carefully around the circumference of Link’s wrist.

“That okay?”

Link gave a slight nod.

“Gonna wrap it up and tape it down…” He grabbed the longer strip of gauze, and gingerly began winding it from the base of Link’s thumb to halfway up his forearm, as Patty had shown him. “Let me know if it’s too tight. Don’t wanna cut off the…” 

Rhett petered off. Link probably didn’t want to hear any talk about circulation. 

“Anyways Travis had that damn tree tattoo all through high school, as I recall. Probably still has it. You know why, I bet he didn’t keep it clean. Is that still okay, does it feel like it needs to be more loose or anything?”

Link shook his head.

“’Cause his parents probably didn’t even bother keeping it clean. They were kind of jerks, weren’t they? They lived a few houses from the school and they’d sit out on their porch and call the city on anybody who did anything slightly questionable. They coulda stood to pay less attention to their neighbor’s lawns and more attention to their kid.”

Rhett let go of the gauze and begun peeling off pieces of tape. 

“She said this tape wasn’t gonna pull your hair out when we take it off… but damn it’s sticky.”

He secured the edges of the gauze, then put down one or two more layers for good measure. Then he sat back a bit, regarding Link.

“You sure that ain’t too tight?”

Link gave a weak thumbs-up. 

“Feel okay?”

He nodded. 

“Those painkillers doin’ what they’re supposed to?”

Link nodded again, a tiny twisted smile ghosting past his face.

“No tree tattoos on my watch, that baby is _clean_. And _ointmented._ ”

Link very briefly met Rhett’s eyes, and in his scant gaze there was, beneath heavy exhaustion, a thankfulness. 

“Alright, Neal,” said Rhett, slapping his thighs and standing up. “Get you to bed.” He held out his arm, and Link took it, pulling himself shakily to his feet. “I’m gonna grab the ice packs, you go on.”

Rhett went back to his own quarters to pull out the two ice packs, and then dug around for some extra pillow cases to wrap them in.

A gentle knock on the door.

“Probably room service,” Rhett announced to Link, who had frozen, staring at the door. Rhett put the ice down and peeped through the hole. “Yep, room service. Oh, and they brought a special guest!” 

He opened the door, doing his best to put his body between the staff and Link to afford his friend a bit of privacy. One of the men, wearing a snappy white apron and matching beret, gave a tiny little bow. The other one apparently had no notion of privacy, and trotted right past Rhett and into the room. Rhett smiled but was slightly miffed that Guinness hadn’t even bothered to greet Rhett on his way to visiting Link.

“Front desk said to bring him up too for a visit,” said the man standing by the food cart. “Hope it’s okay. Guess it’s too late if it isn’t.”

“I think it’s okay,” Rhett said, glancing back into the room. Link and Guinness were reuniting as if they were long-lost friends. 

“That there’s a smart dog,” said the man quietly. “Used to be a therapy dog, used to go around in hospitals. But he wouldn’t stop playing with the cords… Well, guess he isn’t _that_ smart. But he knows who needs some lovin’. Good judge of character.”

“He your dog?” 

“The manager’s. Together they run this joint.” 

The man showed Rhett what he’d brought up: a tureen of house-made chicken broth, a pile of toast and butter, some fruit, applesauce, a pot of peppermint tea, and an unopened glass pint jar of organic peanut butter.

“Holy crap,” Rhett said. “I get the impression you know someone in this room ain’t well.”

“Yeah, front desk said it was kind of obvious when you got here. Anything else I can get you?”

“No, this is… this is great. Thank you so much.”

“You think of anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Rhett thanked him again before carefully transferring the tray into their suite. The man called for Guinness, and after they’d left Rhett relocked the latch and deadbolt. He asked Link if he felt like eating, which, predictably, he did not. Rhett put the tray in his own kitchenette, hoping the smell wouldn’t upset Link’s stomach. He picked up the ice packs and went to Link’s bed, where his friend was reaching over to put his glasses on the table. 

“Here’s one for your shoulder… Patty said keep it on the top there, kind of over the… yeah. Keep it there. And then for your hand, you just set your hand on this one. Yep.” 

Rhett straightened up and regarded his friend.

“You gonna be warm enough?”

Link might have nodded, but at this point his eyes were glassy, full of stars. 

“You want any more blankets just knock somethin’ over, I’ll come bring you some.”

Link closed his eyes.

“I’m gonna set my timer, I’ll be back in twenty minutes to take the ice off.” 

It appeared to Rhett as if Link was already sleeping. 

Rhett reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, then padded back towards his own illuminated room. He started to close the door between their rooms, but paused, staring through the dark at the faint form of his best friend, spread out on the bed like an etherized patient, iced and wrapped, and decided that even the quiet sound of a closing door would be too final, and that when he opened it again to remove the ice, Link might have shifted irreversibly into a recluse, trapped within the trauma of his memories. 

Rhett raised his eyebrows and shook his head at his own mind’s tired ramblings… but kept the door open a good foot, just in case. 

He grabbed a wedge of toast and inhaled it on the way over to his desk. He sat, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath.

Then he opened them, and surveyed the task before him: a circus of resources, instructions, suggestions, reminders, and legalese all waiting for his brain to absorb and understand them. 

He stared at the sheet on top: How To Change Occlusive Dressing. The one underneath: Exam Summary. Next to it, the third page of “Index of Victim’s Rights”. X-ray results. Prescription orders. Follow-up instructions, “STI Symptoms to Watch For”, pamphlets for local advocacy programs, papers that made Rhett’s eyes start to cross and his brain start to sizzle.

It was a lot. 

He planted his thumb and index finger firmly into his eye sockets and groaned. 

Every inch of him just wanted to sleep but there was a stubborn slice of brain that was threatening sabotage if he didn’t at least set a schedule and to-do list for the next 24 hours. When to apply ice. When to take it off. When to give Link which medications. How often to clean which wounds, change various bandages. 

His phone buzzed and he jumped. His wife was calling. 

“Jesus, at this hour?” he muttered, before realizing that it was the godly hour of 9:50 in the morning, an excellent time to call just about anybody. He checked his attitude and answered, and chatted quietly for a while. She wanted to know what had happened. He told her all he could but she still picked up on the fact that he wasn’t sharing the whole story. He apologized; she said she understood but her voice belied her concern. She asked if they were safe; he described the elaborate security measures of Sentry, as well as the above-and-beyond food service, and suggested that they come here for their next family vacation before adding morosely that this place would probably cost so much that their next family vacation would have to be to the park back home. 

Then the alarm to remove the ice packs went off. They exchanged goodbyes and he hung up feeling more centered than before. 

Rhett found his friend in the same position he’d left him in, knocked out on his back, both arms on top of the blankets. He pulled the ice pack off Link’s shoulder, and the other out from under Link’s hand.

Link didn’t stir. 

Rhett squinted through the shadows to assure himself that Link was still breathing. Yes; the slow, slight rise and fall of his chest, the soft breaths from between his lips. It was unlike him to have remained in the same position for so long. Rhett wanted to wake him up just to ask him if he was okay, but thought better of it, and retreated back to his room. 

_Paperwork Buddy Strikes Again_ , he thought, feeling distinctly unheroic and settling back down at his desk. He began setting aside papers relevant to putting together a schedule, and relegating anything not immediately relevant to the floor for now. The more time passed, the more paragraphs he found himself reading and re-reading, having to remind himself what he was looking for. His eyes ached. His brain kept short-circuiting. Plugging his fingers into his eyes and rubbing them wasn’t working but it was the only thing he had left in his mental tool box. 

After about half an hour of fussing and staring and sighing, he crossed his arms and lowered his head down to the desk.

This really, he knew, shouldn’t be _that_ hard. It wasn’t _that_ much to keep track of.

So why did he feel so anxious about it all? 

He had the world’s most sluggish mental argument with himself over why this could be. A horrible and obvious truth had just begun to percolate down into his brain about why he felt this way when a small noise caused him to look up.

Link was leaning on the doorframe between their rooms, arms crossed, squinting at him. 

“Didn’t hear you get up,” Rhett said. “You okay? What do you need?”

Link gave him a perplexed look, and walked over to Rhett’s desk. He pushed a few of the papers around before grabbing Rhett’s mug of water, which was still full because he’d completely forgotten about it. Link handed it to Rhett and then half-sat on the desk, watching Rhett expectantly. 

“Geez, alright,” he said, and took a few swigs of water while worrying about what had woken Link up. Was it already time for another painkiller? It wasn’t, was it? Had he had a nightmare? Maybe he was hungry.

Link reached over, grabbed Rhett’s phone, and begun typing something. He handed it back to Rhett and recrossed his arms. 

_Go to bed you butt_

“Yeah I’m headed there, I just wanted to get some of this stuff in order.”

Link glanced down at the mess of papers, clearly not impressed.

“Seriously,” Rhett assured him. “I’m gonna go to bed soon. Don’t worry about me.”

Rhett watched as a perplexing set of expressions collided in waves on Link’s face, from skepticism to fondness to heavy grief, all overlaid with the fog of being bludgeoned into numbness by drugs. 

“You get back to bed. Need anything?” he asked. Link continued staring at Rhett for a moment, and then reached over and turned the desk lamp off. He stood, and held a hand out to Rhett. Rhett reached for it automatically, checking the bandage.

“You need this redressed? Is it coming off or somethin’? Turn the light back on, I can’t see what’s wrong.”

Despite the shadows, it was easy to see Link roll his eyes. He took Rhett’s elbow and tugged him gently back through the doorway into the darkness of his room, to his bed. He dropped Rhett’s arm and got into bed carefully, like an old man, and then patted tiredly at the other side of the bed. 

“You want me to get in bed with you?” Rhett asked, dubious.

Link patted the bed more insistently, looking slightly annoyed. 

“If that’s what you want,” Rhett mumbled, but really, as he collapsed slowly between the gray sheets, he couldn’t deny it’s what he himself wanted too. Mostly to go to bed, but also to be so close to Link – two feet away – that if anything were to happen, Rhett would realize immediately. 

Two feet away became less as Link curled onto his side, facing Rhett. Rhett thought about telling him to roll back because he shouldn’t be resting on his side, probably, but stayed quiet. At least he wasn’t laying on his separated shoulder. Link stared up at Rhett with half-lidded, bleary eyes, and then reached over with his hand. In his current state, Link was liable to do anything at all, and Rhett braced himself for whatever odd thing Link was feeling the urge to do. 

Link merely ran the backs of his fingers down Rhett’s cheek, and then brushed them against Rhett’s temple, over his hair. 

“Bo, you’re gonna snag your splint in my hairs.”

Link sighed and dropped his hand onto Rhett’s shoulder. His eyes were very glassy. 

“Go to sleep, man,” Rhett whispered. 

Link’s hand twitched listlessly on Rhett’s shoulder.

Rhett shrugged Link’s hand off and moved it carefully into the space between them before rolling onto his side himself, facing Link.

“Link, I think you’re pretty drugged up right now,” Rhett murmured. “And you’re probably feelin’ all kind of weird, or maybe not feelin’ some things that you think you should be feelin’.”

Link made brief eye contact with Rhett before his gaze seemed to slip back into the void just beyond Rhett’s ear. 

“Whatever is goin’ through your head right now, drugs or otherwise, is just part of this whole process.”

In the luminescence from the sliver of day slipping in around the heavy curtains, Rhett saw something on Link’s cheek catch the light. He reached out and gently brushed the tear away, which was a stupid, sentimental, useless thing to do because he knew there were more where that one came from, besides which what kind of hubris was it to think that wiping away a tear would get rid of somebody’s troubles? 

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen either but I’ll be there for it if you want me to be.”

Another tear fell; Rhett wiped that one away too.

“Right now you’re safe and we got all the time in the world, so why don’t you go back to sleep? Close your eyes.”

Link did. The rest of his tears went their own course as Rhett moved his fingertips gingerly up into Link’s hair, combing down over his ear very slowly, the way he used to comb his kids’ hair to get them to shut up and go to sleep. The way he’d comb his wife’s hair when she was sad. 

“Maybe Guinness will come visit again in the morning. Or whenever it’ll be in eight hours.” He brushed through Link’s hair again. “I think you might need a dog, man,” he whispered. “Imma tell your wife to get you a dog.”

Link let out a quiet sigh, sending a puff of his antiseptic breath into Rhett.

“A lap dog,” Rhett continued, still brushing his hand over Link’s temple. “You’d have to let me name it ‘cause you’d choose something dumb. You two could just sit and eat peanut butter together. You’d be peanut butter buddies.”

Judging by Link’s breathing pattern, he’d fallen asleep. Rhett continued stroking his fingers as softly as he could through Link’s hair, hoping it would help his friend sink deeper into sleep. At some point he fell asleep himself, coming briefly back to wakefulness when Link emitted the world’s tiniest cough. Rhett realized his hand was nestled under Link’s chin, against his collarbone, and he found there was something reassuring about having his hand there.

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep, and together they slumbered through the noon hour and into the beginning of the afternoon, all the way to exactly 1:25PM. 

It was very nice, while it lasted.


	17. Reasons to Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straight gratuitous bloody whump, skip it and you won’t miss much plot.

Rhett stirred awake as he felt Link’s warmth pull away from his hand. The bed shifted under him. He squinted at the clock, visible now that Link wasn’t in the way. 

1:25PM.

“Where you goin’?” he tried to mumble, but it came out so quietly that even Rhett could barely hear himself. Link padded away and Rhett heard the bathroom door squeak a little and shut, and Rhett relaxed back into sleep’s embrace.

Well, he tried to. 

At 1:30 Link wasn’t back yet and Rhett could hear weak coughing in the bathroom. He dragged himself out from under the covers and made his way blearily to the bathroom door. 

“You okay in there?” he croaked, knocking gently. A moment passed, and then the door opened. The hotel had a discreet little night light plugged in under the mirror; Link’s outline glowed a soft blue as he moved back from the door to the sink and rested his arms and head on the marble countertop. 

His coughing wasn’t bringing anything up, and he could clearly breathe fine, but it was a constant, unyielding cough, like the cough you get from getting something tiny and benign down the windpipe and then having to wave reassuringly at everyone in your general proximity because they believe you are now choking to death when in fact it is just your lungs waging a very thorough war against a drop of water. 

Link didn’t seem worried. He just seemed tired. Rhett could see it in the set of his shoulders. 

“Water?” Rhett asked. Link shook his head but didn’t look up. “Gonna get you some water, just in case,” he said, and shuffled off to find the mug Link had used before. He didn’t want to turn the lights on and scare away the slumber still hanging hopefully in the back of his brain. Link was still leaning face-first into the countertop when Rhett came back; Rhett skirted around him to run the cold water. He set the mug down in front of Link and brushed his hands softly over Link’s shoulders, feeling them seize with coughs, and sighed. 

“Wanna try drinking some water?” 

Link took a few breaths before straightening up and reaching for the mug. Another fit of coughing stopped him, and it was a moment before Link tried again. This time he grabbed it clumsily with both bandaged hands and raised it to his mouth before having to stop and cough. Rhett used his own slivers of wakefulness to silently beg Link’s body to stop long enough for him to get a drink. It worked – or something did. Link got down a few sips of water. The coughing came back immediately but small victories were still victories. 

“Hotel air is always so damn dry. ‘Specially in the winter,” Rhett said, slurring a little. He leaned back against the towel wall, arms crossed, eyes closed, waiting for the water to do its work, waiting for Link to stop coughing, relishing the idea of returning to bed where, if God existed at all, some heat shadow of their bodies would still be lingering under the covers for them to slip back into. 

Link did not stop coughing. 

“Bud, why don’t you…” Rhett pushed off from the wall and leaned down on his elbows on the other side of the sink. “How ‘bout try another couple sips. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Link gave Rhett a pointed, squinty-eyed look, which clearly said to Rhett _you are too_ , but he reached again for the mug and got a little more water down in between coughs. Rhett then pushed the numbing spray over to Link, but Link shook his head and mouthed something.

“What?”

Link tried again but kept coughing. Eventually he got out that he’d already tried the spray, which if Rhett’s nose had joined him in the waking word he would have realized upon entering the bathroom. 

“This says use as needed, maybe you just need more.”

Link grabbed the spray and took another few spritzes, then made a face and rested his head against the stone. A few beats of silence passed and for a moment Rhett thought it had worked. 

Then another cough burst out and Rhett wanted to groan for both of them. Link gave a silent wail of frustration before a renewed and more urgent fit of coughing bent him over the sink. 

“Shit, man,” Rhett muttered in sympathy, and tried to mentally slap himself awake. What to do in the case that Link couldn’t stop coughing? Rhett combed over what he remembered hearing from Patty, anything from the papers still strewn on his desk, but he could recall nothing that would help in a situation like this, beyond the throat spray.

“You wanna take a hot shower? Maybe the steam would help.”

Link shook his head. 

“Hot tea?”

Link didn’t respond, and as Rhett was desperate to try _anything_ , however unlikely it was to help, he left Link in the bathroom to go fetch the pot of peppermint tea sitting on the tray, next to the cold broth and toast. He filled a mug and stuck it in the microwave, then paced slowly from the bathroom to the microwave for a minute until the tea was done. He checked the temperature and then set the steaming mug before Link. 

“It’s a little hot but should be okay. Sorry it’s mint, it’s what they brought up.”

Link tried to take a sip but was having trouble finding a space to draw breath, and shakily set the mug back down.

“That spray ain’t working at all, is it?”

Link shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. He grabbed the edge of the counter and lowered himself down into a crouch, resting his head on the cabinet doors and looking very unhappy as coughs continued erupting from his chest. Rhett crouched next to him and lay a careful hand on his friend’s shoulder. He wanted to say something like _it’s gonna be okay_ , or _this will pass_ but Link didn’t seem open to receiving that kind of bullshit. He let go of the counter with his splinted hand and pressed it gingerly into his throat. His other arm wrapped around his ribs. 

“You in pain?”

Link gave a little nod between coughs. 

Rhett felt a flutter of panic in his own chest. He was out of ideas and didn’t know what to do to help Link.

“I’m gonna call Patty.”

Rhett got up to fetch his phone. It was on his desk; he turned the lamp on to find the sheet that had Patty’s contact number. He could hear Link continue to cough in the bathroom, and berated himself for not having thought to enter Patty’s number right into his own speed dial. He punched in the number wrong the first two times, and then paced as it rang and rang before dumping him into an answering machine labyrinth that he knew would require him to listen attentively to a million options before actually being able to leave a message. 

He hung up and redialed, pacing furiously, trying to push down the quivering that had started in his gut. The noises Link was making were louder and more painful now; every time he coughed, it was accompanied by a twisted little whimper that made Rhett himself feel ill. 

_“Dr. Patty Onyeneme.”_

“Oh thank god Patty, this is Rhett, I think Link is, like, he’s, he won’t stop coughing and I don’t know what to do.”

_“Okay. I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”_

“Rhett. Rhett McLaughlin, we were in earlier today. Me and Link. Charles Neal.”

_“Right, okay, yes. Now what’s going on again?”_

“Link is, uh, he woke up, I mean we were sleeping and he woke up and he just keeps coughing,” Rhett babbled, going to the bathroom and glancing in at Link, slouched over his knees and looking like he was praying to the garbage bin under the sink. “He, um, we tried the throat spray. I don’t – it’s, it’s not working. I don’t wanna give him another painkiller yet, he just took one a few hours ago and it says only take one every twelve hours – ”

 _“Hold up,”_ she interrupted. _“Take a breath.”_

Rhett did, but only to appease her.

_“How long has he been coughing like this?”_

“I don’t know, fifteen, twenty minutes since he got up, and it’s just getting worse.”

_“Is he having trouble breathing?”_

Rhett glanced into the bathroom again. 

“No. I mean maybe. He literally can’t stop coughing. He’s breathing but it doesn’t look easy. So yeah, maybe, yeah.”

_“Is he in pain?”_

“Yeah, he’s… he’s holding his throat. Link, are you choking?”

Link shook his head.

“He says he ain’t choking though.”

_“You tried the numbing spray?”_

“Yeah, twice,” Rhett said, stepping back into the bedroom, not wanting to cause Link any further disquiet by their conversation. “We tried it twice. Had him drink some water too but I mean that almost made it worse. It’s just getting worse since he woke up.”

_“Has he eaten anything lately?”_

“Nothing since getting here. Nothing since...” Rhett paused to think, drumming his fingers against the wall by their bed. “No, nothing.”

_“Has he taken any other drugs or medications?”_

“No, just the painkiller and the spray.”

 _“Okay, Rhett.”_ Patty’s voice was calm over the phone; Rhett was pressing the phone to his ear, begging silently for a remedy, a solution, an answer, or at least a plan of action. _“I’d like you to take him back to the hospital. I don’t think it’s anything to really worry about but let’s make sure. His throat is really irritated, he might just need a muscle relaxant to get him over this.”_

Part of Rhett felt a great relief at the thought of professional medical help. The other part crumpled at the thought of having to bring Link back there. They’d just gotten out. He sighed and stuck his head into the bathroom.

Link was still sitting on his feet, pressing his head into the cabinet, both arms around his middle. By some miracle, he was not presently coughing. Rhett held his own breath long enough to see that Link was also breathing. He drew back from the door and muttered conspiratorially to Patty.

“He just stopped coughing.”

_“Is he breathing okay?”_

“Yeah, he is, he’s breathing.”

_“Maybe he just needed some time…”_

“He was seriously _just fine_ like two hours ago. Went to sleep no problem, he wasn’t coughing or anything.”

_“Something must have triggered some irritation.”_

“Should I still bring him to the hospital?”

_“Let’s wait a couple minutes and see what happens.”_

“Yeah, okay.” Rhett paced back to their bed, hoping some peace and quiet in the dimly-lit room would do Link some good and help him regain his breath. 

_“I’m concerned that he hasn’t eaten anything.”_

“Yeah, me too… We have some chicken broth up here, and some applesauce and stuff but I… I haven’t gotten him to eat anything yet.” Rhett felt a pang of guilt settle into his stomach. “He looks sick every time I mention food.”

_“I’m not surprised. Keep an eye on that. Chicken broth would be great, as long as it’s not hot.”_

“Nothing hot?”

_“Lukewarm is best for now.”_

Rhett thought about the hot tea sitting on the bathroom counter and felt another guilty twinge. Patty started rattling off a list of good food options, several of which Rhett struck immediately from his mental list because he knew Link wouldn’t like them. He scrambled for a pen and paper to start writing things down. 

A sudden, horrible sound made him drop the phone.

He knocked his shin on the leg of a chair, fell into the wall, and launched towards the bathroom, where it sounded as if Link was choking or dying, maybe both. 

Stumbling through the doorway, he saw Link on the floor but couldn’t immediately tell what was the matter, so reached for the light switch. He winced away from the sudden blast of several thousand lumens shining down from the light fixtures. Peeling his eyes open against the flash blindness, he stepped into the room.

His eyes adjusted. The bathroom rug had been bleach-white, so it was with some amount of shock that Rhett registered how red part of it now was. 

“What the fuck,” Rhett heard himself breathe, and dropped to the floor in front of his friend. Link was on his knees, doubled over and drawing ragged breaths between fits of hacking. Rhett grabbed Link’s wrists and drew them up, eyes flying over his friend’s body, looking for the source of the blood. One of the bandages was stained pink but nothing that would account for what was on the rug.

“Link. The blood, where did it come from? What happened?”

Link gagged, pulled his wrists out of Rhett’s hands, leaned over the toilet and heaved blood.

Rhett felt his own insides turn icy with panic. 

“Oh shit. Oh shit, oh god, oh shit. Hang… Hang on, I’m gonna – ” 

He lurched to his feet and dove out of the bathroom, into the darkness of the suite, where he immediately stubbed his toe quite hard on a corner but wouldn’t notice he’d done that until much later, because currently in his mind if he couldn’t reach his dropped phone and call an ambulance immediately, his friend would surely die, and this was causing him a considerable amount of anxiety. He couldn’t remember where the light switches were and flailed against the walls on the way into his room, searching blindly. His foot connected with the phone on the ground; he swooped down and grabbed it. 

He could hear Patty’s voice coming through the speaker, yelling. Rhett pushed the phone to his ear, stumbling back to the bathroom. 

“Patty, I gotta call an ambulance, I gotta go – ”

_“I already dispatched one. Where are you?”_

“Sentry Hotel. I… I don’t remember which room.” 

Patty switched lines for a moment to convey the information. 

“Oh god,” Rhett breathed, crouching down next to Link, who was grimacing and drooling blood into the bowl of the toilet. “Oh my god, what happened, bo?”

Link just shook his head and gestured vaguely at his own neck. 

_“Rhett,”_ Patty said forcefully, back on the line, _“talk to me. What’s happening?”_

“Um… Oh my god. There’s just… Oh my god, that’s so much, why is that happening?” Rhett felt his own stomach churn, sick with anxiety. Link’s whole body was trembling, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other gripping the edge of the seat. He retched again; a string of blood fell from between his lips, and a few drops dripped off the tip of his nose. Rhett knew that something inside Link’s body was broken and bleeding, something had gone wrong. Rhett had no idea what had caused this, and hated that he had no clue whatsoever about how to fix it. 

_“Rhett. RHETT.”_

“How long is it gonna take?” Rhett asked, twisting his free hand into his hair. “How long till they’re here?”

_“As soon as they can. A few minutes. Tell me what’s happening, I'll switch lines and let them know what to expect when they get there.”_

“He’s just…” Rhett cursed as Link heaved again, hacking out another glob of red. “He’s just, oh my god that’s… he’s just vomiting blood, Patty, I-I don’t know what to do. How do I stop it?”

_“Stay on the line with me.”_

“What should I _do_?”

_“Is he still able to breathe?”_

“Fuck, I don’t know, Link, are you breathing? Yeah he’s breathing but it don’t look easy.”

_“Is he upright?”_

“Yeah.” 

_“Make sure he stays upright, okay?”_

Rhett knelt beside Link and threw an arm around his friend’s shoulders.

“Link, buddy, they’re coming, you’re gonna be okay –”

Link cut him off with another violent cough that made his whole body jerk, followed by a tremendous, empty heave. 

“His nose is really bleedin’,” Rhett said into the phone, trying to swallow his own queasiness. He leaned down to try to get a look at Link’s face but his hair was making it hard. Rhett reached and brushed his own shaking thumb across the side of Link’s face, shoving dark hair behind Link’s ear. 

“I got Patty right here on the phone and an ambulance is coming, just hang on. You just gotta keep breathin’.” 

Asking Link to breathe was a simple request but right now it seemed a tall order. Between coughing, hacking, heaving and now sobbing, Link was clearly having trouble fitting in something so simple as mere breathing. Link pushed away from the toilet, gagging, and leaned heavily into Rhett, dripping tears and blood and spit.

“Jesus Christ.” Rhett hugged Link tightly, fuck the bruises on his shoulders and also fuck everything in general. “Patty, what do I do?”

_“Keep him upright.”_

“What else do I do?” he said, and his voice hitched. 

_“Make sure he stays conscious.”_

Rhett leaned down and checked. Link’s eyes were glazed; one of them was half-crimson. Seeing it pushed a sob out of Rhett’s lungs. He straightened up again so Link wouldn’t have to deal with the sight of his own best friend weeping and panicking.

“He’s conscious,” Rhett reported brokenly. “His eyeball is bleeding, why’s that happening?”

_“Common after that much strain on the abs. He’s gonna be okay, Rhett. I know it’s hard to see him like this but they’ll get him fixed up. I promise. Just hang on with him a little longer.”_

Rhett did hang on, tightly. 

A few moments passed: Patty kept asking for a status report, and Rhett, desperate though he was to see some change for the better, shared the same morbid news several times. Something was still coming out of all the holes in Link’s face. 

Including the state he’d found Link in when they’d dragged him out of the bomb shelter, Rhett had never in his life seen Link look so drained. Rhett was sure if he wasn’t holding his friend upright Link would have ended up laying on the floor in his own mess. Reaching the toilet had ceased to be a priority for him, replaced now with the act of breathing between whatever else his body thought he should be doing. He had his eyes squeezed shut, and they stayed shut for eight more minutes until a loud knock sounded from their hallway-facing door. 

Rhett pulled Link over to lean against the cabinets and told him to stay upright before creaking to his feet and going to let them in. Three men in EMT uniform were waiting with a gurney; a Sentry security guard waited behind them. Rhett stood aside, pointing into the bathroom, and then tried to watch and track what they were doing and saying, but the space was small and they kept having to go back into the hallway for various pieces of equipment, so he backed up into the bedroom.

He was immediately beckoned by one of the technicians, who began shooting rapid-fire questions at him about what Link had been eating, drinking, taking and doing for the last twelve hours. He watched anxiously for a moment; the EMTs were murmuring to each other and to Link, moving with a much more measured purpose than Rhett himself could possibly imagine feeling at the moment. He stood and shivered for a few moments before remembering he was clutching his phone. 

He brought it back to his ear. 

“You still there?”

_“Still here.”_

“The EMTs are here. Thanks for, uh, sending them.”

_“Are you going with him to the hospital?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Are you packed?”_

“What?”

_“Get your stuff together now, grab your wallet and a jacket. Get Link’s. You don’t know how long you’ll be there.”_

“Right, okay, yeah, I should do that.”

_“You and Link are in good hands now. Want to hang up so you can concentrate on packing up quick?”_

“Sure, yeah,” said Rhett, hating the idea but realizing the logic. “Thanks Patty.”

_“Call back anytime.”_

“Okay.”

Rhett tried to shove his phone into his back pocket only to remember that his sleepwear did not have back pockets. With no idea how much time he had before the EMTs hauled Link away, he executed perhaps the world’s fastest change of pants before snatching up the plastic pharmacy bag and stuffing it with his hoodie, his laptop, all the papers on his desk, and everything he’d purchased earlier at the pharmacy sans ice packs. With one eyeball trained on the bathroom door he dove into Link’s stuff and found a change of clothing for his friend, throwing Link’s headphones into the bag as well. 

The EMTs emerged from the bathroom, half-dragging Link back out into the hallway and laying him down on his side on the gurney. He was clutching his middle with one arm, his head with the other, both eyes shut tight and his whole body shuddering. When they affixed an oxygen mask to his face he clawed it off immediately. As one of the techs retrieved the mask from where it dangled over the rail, another turned to Rhett. 

“Are you accompanying Charles?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Rhett said, hurrying through the door, and then lunging back in to grab one of the soft, gray robes that Sentry provided, because Link looked so miserable and Rhett couldn’t think of anything else at the moment that was so obviously comfortable, and maybe at the end of all this Link would want it. As they moved down the hallway towards the elevator, one of the men secured the oxygen mask back over Link’s face. Link reached to shove the mask away again; the man pushed Link’s arms down before grabbing the dangling gurney straps and snapping them into place, effectively immobilizing him. 

Link was clearly upset about this and made a few weak attempts at shrugging off the straps. His bloodshot eyes were open, staring wildly up at the people around him. They were talking calmly, asking him to slow his breathing and relax, but Rhett didn’t think Link was registering any of what they were saying. 

They reached the elevator and crammed inside; Rhett squeezed himself in next to Link’s head, leaning over in an attempt to catch Link’s gaze. 

“Link, buddy, hey, it’s Rhett.”

Link’s eyes were roving, unfocused. 

“Dude, hey, be here. You’re in an elevator. You’re in a hotel. I’m right here. These people are here to help.”

Link wasn’t hearing him. He was spending what must have been his last ounce of energy trying to dislodge the mask by rubbing his face against the gurney’s siderail. 

“Hey, man, stop that, you gotta keep it on.” Rhett pushed Link’s head back to the vinyl mattress. “Just breathe.”

Link shut his eyes tight and stopped squirming, turning his face against the mattress, leaving a smear of blood and tears. 

Rhett wanted to tell him again that he was here, that they were in the hotel, that the men around them were safe people, because he had a feeling Link was stuck somewhere else right now, but the elevator doors opened. As a unit they all moved out into the lobby, past the desk where the clerk stood with her hand over her mouth, through the doors, back into the cold to the waiting ambulance. 

Briefly, Rhett was pleased to see that Link had finally relaxed – his eyes didn’t seem shut so tight, his hands weren’t fidgeting. But he was _too_ still; his face was _too_ placid. Rhett announced that Link had fainted and that they needed to hurry for godssake, and the EMTs assured him, as they loaded Link’s body into the back, that hyperventilating while on oxygen commonly caused fainting spells, besides which they had given him a sedative earlier so this was expected, and would he please go to the front of the ambulance to ride in the cab. 

He hauled himself up into the ambulance, fancy robe and bag of crap in hand, and slammed the door. He swiveled around to check for a hind-facing window into the back of the vehicle, but there was nothing. 

The driver told him to buckle up, turned the siren on, and peeled away from the curb, from their suite, from its safety and comfort, from Guinness the dog and from Link’s glasses, which Rhett had, once again, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a reason for all this (kind of) and better days are coming, I promise.


	18. Bonus Round

When the surgeon finally made an appearance to report to Rhett what it was he’d found, Rhett was torn three ways between wanting to laugh, wanting to cry, and wanting to murder. 

By that point Rhett had been lurking in the corner of the waiting room for about two hours, but it had felt much longer. 

Link was still out cold when the ambulance had pulled up to the hospital’s receiving bay. Rhett had tried valiantly to follow the gurney as the staff wheeled it in through the doors, but he was efficiently re-routed to the patient receiving desk to be quizzed all about who was on the gurney, and why. After a minute, Rhett implored the nurse to just look up Link’s file for all relevant information. With a flat tone that spoke of having to deal with difficult folks like Rhett on an everyday (perhaps every minute) basis, she informed him that their online file system was currently being updated, was running slow, and that she did not yet have access to the recent medical history of Charles Lincoln Neal III, and is Charles allergic to iodine, penicillin, or succinylcholine?

Rhett did not know, nor could his scrambled and weary brain have ever repeated the last word she’d said. 

He was directed to the crowded waiting room and told that they’d update him as soon as they could. He found an empty corner, dropping his plastic pharmacy bag and the robe from Sentry in the chair next to him, before getting down to the serious business of worrying that he would never see Link alive again. Part of his brain recognized that this was catastrophic thinking, but the other part – the louder part – was saying that this _was_ a catastrophe. 

Catastrophe or not, his body was begging for it to stop. 

He leaned back against the small, uncomfortable waiting room chair, resting his head on the wall. His eyeballs felt like glasses brimming with bottom-shelf whiskey, threatening to spill out of their sockets. His stubbed toe hurt like a bitch. All he wanted to do was sit there, numb, until somebody came out and told him what was wrong with Link and what they were going to do to fix him. 

Rhett knew he wouldn’t be able to achieve total numbness, so thought he ought to at least try to make himself useful. 

He pulled out his phone, thinking he’d call Link’s wife and give her an update, but thought better of it. What an awful update it would have been. _Hey, yeah, just wanted to let you know Link’s vomiting blood, we don’t know why, and he might be dying. How’s the weather in California?_

Unacceptable. If he was going to call her, he’d wait until he had some news first. 

His finger wavered over his home number. He was sorely tempted to call his own wife, and he knew he owed her some news anyways. He could see he’d missed three calls from her in the past few hours, as well as several texts and a voice mail, all conveying her concern, support, and, increasingly, her chagrin at not having heard from him. 

Rhett hung his head, contemplating, but decided again that he’d wait until he had more news. He wanted to talk to her; he wanted to tell her _everything_. But it would be Link’s decision about if and when anybody learned what had happened, and in this case, pulling on one thread might lead to unraveling the whole blanket. 

He looked through his other missed calls and was disappointed that none of them were from Illinois, or looked anything like it had come from a medical professional bearing news about Link’s various tests, or someone associated with the law with a possible update on the current whereabouts of the two shits who’d traumatized Link. He’d missed three unidentified California calls, and two from Stevie. His gut knotted up; he knew he’d have to call the crew at some point and tell them… _something._ No way would Link be able to go straight back to filming when they returned, and they’d want to know why. Would Link tell them the truth? Would they lie? Maybe… Hey, _maybe_ by the time they got back, Link would be feeling better, would have his voice back, would want to go right back to work, and they wouldn’t have to tell their coworkers _anything._

_Right._

The knot in Rhett’s gut tightened as he realized his projections of the future were built upon the premise that Link would get out of this alive and intact. At this point that was not at all a guarantee. He leaned back into the wall again and tried not to imagine what was happening to Link at the moment. Something had settled onto his chest, tight and coiled, and he wished desperately that he could just relax, take a few deep breaths, and release whatever it was. Rhett was pretty good at recognizing an exercise in futility when he saw it, though. The dread wouldn’t be leaving him until someone came through those swinging doors, smiling, to share with Rhett some good news about his friend. 

At some point during the long and winding history of humanity some fortunate soul had apparently discovered that Time Flies When They Were Having Fun, and they had said as much, and it was true. Rhett wondered if, before or after that point, anybody had made the smart alternate observation that time crawled when one was having the worst day of their life, and if this had not been officially observed yet, could Rhett make any money from publishing this discovery? 

The money would go towards paying for their stay at Sentry, and, if there was any left after that, it could chip away at the inevitable rumble of hospital bills that would no doubt be plaguing Link, should he live, in the form of thrillingly austere letters from debt collectors over the next year or so because it was an impossibility that Link’s (let alone anybody’s) individual marketplace insurance plan would get its explanation of benefits together in a nice, clear, correct order and in a timely fashion to boot. 

The phone in his hand vibrated and he almost dropped it before looking at the screen:

John: _Rhett this is John Best. I just wanted to check in and see if I could give you a call at some point soon. I’m at the conference but can step out and talk any time._

Rhett stared at the text. Here, at least, was someone who already knew most of what had happened. He glanced back up at the double doors from which medical professionals would sometimes emerge and head towards a waiting party. Currently, the doors were still as stone. 

Rhett: _I’m free right now. I’m in a waiting room. Have all the time in the world._

It wasn’t that Rhett actually wanted to speak with John; it was that right now he was willing to do just about anything to distract himself from why he was sitting there in a waiting room, having one of the worst waits of his life, if it meant not having to break any horrible news to anyone or hear any horrible news from anyone. 

His phone rang immediately.

“Hello?”

_“Hello Rhett! It’s John Best, I just texted you.”_

“Hey John.”

_“Is now an okay time to chat?”_

“I have literally nothing better to do.”

_“Great. I just wanted to let you guys know that the police collected Link’s phone for evidence – ”_

“Oh, what?”

_“Yeah but don’t worry, I asked if they’d be giving it back to Link, they said yes. They just needed to check the call history and stuff. They wanted to make sure that when you and I were talking on the phone last night I was where I said I was, up in Milwaukee.”_

Rhett felt another pang of guilt hit him in the gut and thought if any more pangs of guilt crept up and hit him in the gut he’d start barfing blood too. 

“Oh geez, John, I am so sorry, they asked us who the last person who saw Link was and we told them – ”

John interrupted Rhett with a laugh. 

_“No, no no no, you don’t apologize! This is part of the process. I’m glad they listened and are checking out possible suspects! I’m a weird old man you guys just met.”_

“Well… fair enough.”

_“There we go. Anyways, I’m sure Link misses his phone, just wanted to make sure he knew where it was. They didn’t tell you that they had it already, did they?”_

“No, I haven’t heard _anything_ about _anything_.”

_“Yeah, sounds about right. Gosh, I’m just so glad you went and checked it out and found him. How’s he doing? Must have been scary, is he bearing up alright?”_

Rhett lowered his head into his free hand and sighed. What was he thinking, expecting this conversation not to come to this? After all, John didn’t know what had really happened. _I could lie_ , he thought. _Or minimize._

“Link is doing fine, he’s good. Just had some… had a speed bump last night. I mean this morning. Shit, what time is it? This afternoon. Yeah.”

_“You said you’re in a waiting room.”_

“Yeah, I am.”

 _“You_ still _haven’t left the hospital?!”_

“No, we left… We left it earlier today. In the morning. But then something came up, we had to come back for a bonus round.”

_“…I see.”_

“I, um…” Rhett rubbed his eyes. “I don’t actually know if he’s okay. I don’t know if he’s fine.” He sighed; silence on the other end of the line. “We got here a little while ago, I haven’t heard anything at all. I don’t… We were sleeping and he just…”

_“Are you at NorthShore Memorial?”_

“Yeah.”

_“That’s a good one, Rhett. Really good people there.”_

“Great.”

_“But really bad food. I’m going to bring you lunch. You haven’t had lunch yet, have you?”_

“I… You don’t need to do that.”

_“I’m going to do that. What do you want? Tacos? Subs? There’s a great pizza place a few blocks away. Oh, and there’s a sushi place too. What do you like?”_

“I like everything.”

_“Okay, sit tight, I’ll come to you.”_

“Seriously?”

_“Yeah, seriously. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”_

“John, you really don’t have to – ”

_“Nonsense, I’m going to bring lunch. I’ll see you soon, okay?”_

“… Okay. John, thank you.”

_“No problem at all. Hang tight.”_

Rhett hung on very tightly indeed, for a while. It was nice of John to offer lunch (or it was conniving of John to try to win Rhett’s trust, if John had at all been involved) (which Rhett very much doubted but nothing was off the table at this point), but there was still a possibility that Link was lying next to a crash cart actively dying somewhere deep within the bowels of the Emergency Department, and this thought wholly occupied Rhett’s mind until a nurse barged through the swinging doors, scanned the room, settled her gaze on Rhett, and made a beeline for him. 

Rhett took a deep breath; he felt dizzy.

The nurse approached him the way you’d expect a bodyguard to approach someone who was on file as being a threat to the wellbeing of the Queen Mother. He felt his vision start to narrow and he definitely felt the floor start to tilt. She was coming to ask him if Link would prefer a pastor, a rabbi, or if the hospital’s all-purpose chaplain would do. She _must_ be. There was no other reason for her intensity.

She drew up next to Rhett; he could feel his blood pulsing through his head, whooshing in his ears.

“Rhett McLaughlin?”

“Yeah.”

“Just wanted to let you know Charles is stable, but the surgeon would like to go ahead and…”

She kept talking, but Rhett’s ears had stopped listening. 

_Charles is stable._

He closed his eyes and gathered his last remaining dregs of concentration to focus on figuring out whether or not she was an illusion, if he was actually sleeping, if this was real. 

“Um, are you alright?”

He opened his eyes. She was still standing there.

“Did… you said he was stable?”

“Yeah, his vitals have stabilized. He’s still sedated.”

“He’s okay?” 

She seemed to finally realize that Rhett’s processing abilities had been compromised. 

“He’s okay, yes.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, and what else did you say?”

“I said the surgeon is going to perform an endoscopy to see if he can find out what caused the bleeding.”

“What’s an endoscopy?”

“A very minor procedure. He’s just going to put a tube with a camera on it down Charles’s throat and check out his upper GI. Normally the patient doesn’t even need to be anesthetized for it but in this case we’re going to keep him sleeping.”

“That’s it?”

“So far, that’s it.”

“Oh Jesus, thank God,” he sighed, releasing a whoosh of breath. “I thought you were coming over here to tell me he was dying.”

“Oh no! No no no, not at all!”

“You just looked so intense.”

“My apologies, it’s just it’s very busy back there right now. I shouldn’t have let it show.”

“I’m so relieved.”

“So as the person responsible on Charles’s file, we just need you to sign these forms to give consent for the procedure.” 

“Oh good, more paperwork,” he muttered, taking the clipboard. 

“You can bring those forms to the front desk when you’re done.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you.”

She turned to go.

“Wait,” he said, and she paused. “How the heck did you know who I was when you came into the waiting room?”

“Someone made a note on Charles’s intake form that Rhett was the giant with the beard.”

She left; Rhett let the clipboard fall to his lap for a moment. He stretched his legs and raised his arms up to hit the wall above his head. He took a deep breath, let it out, and took another deep breath, hearing several cracks and pops coming from his spine. 

Whatever had been coiled so brutally around his chest had loosened up a couple notches, and damn it felt good. 

He signed the paperwork and brought it to the desk, feeling a strangely acute appreciation for the cool air filling his lungs. When he returned to his chair he grabbed the grey Sentry robe and draped it over his shoulders, wondering if the hotel sold these things or if angel armpit hair was too expensive to offer for retail. 

He let out a soft sigh; his friend had just had an extremely harrowing last few hours and was about to endure a procedure that would probably create more future discomfort, would _definitely_ create more financial discomfort, and may reveal another emergency to be dealt with immediately, but – he wasn’t currently dying, and Rhett’s relief was so heady it was smothering out his awareness of all the many reasons for anxiety and worry. 

His eyes shut. Waiting room furniture is not designed for comfort, nor for sleep, and _certainly_ not for the comfort or sleep of a giant with a beard. 

Nevertheless, he awoke some time later (a significant crick in his neck) because a wonderful smell had come to him. He shifted, stifling a groan. 

John Best was sitting a respectful two chairs away, reading a Better Homes & Gardens magazine. Two take-out boxes sat in the chair between them. Rhett grabbed his phone and squinted down at the time, and found that he’d been asleep for almost an hour.

“Shit,” he mumbled, throwing off the robe.

“There you are,” said John, and lowered his magazine.

“Hey John… I didn’t mean to sleep that long, did they come?”

“Pardon?”

“Did the… did anyone come with an update on Link?”

“Not since I got here.”

“How long you been here?”

“Oh, maybe half hour.”

“Geez, I’m sorry you were sitting there so long.”

“Never apologize for taking a nap. I just learned how to install a pond. Wife will be thrilled,” he said, and set the magazine aside. 

“A nurse came in right after we spoke on the phone. She said Link was stable.”

“Oh! That’s great news!”

“Yeah. But she said they were going to do an endoscopy of his, like, stomach or something. To try to find the bleeding.”

John’s eyebrows shut up.

“I’m sorry, the bleeding?”

“Yeah, the… Oh, you don’t… shoot.” He hadn’t explained to John what, exactly, had landed Link back in the hospital. “We were napping… because, you know, we’d had the longest, shittiest night ever… He woke up coughing and ended up just vomiting blood. And here we are.”

“That’s _awful.”_

“Yeah, it was. It is.”

“What brought that on? Was it an injury from the goon who nabbed him?”

“Well, I have no idea. That’s what they’re trying to find out. Guess they’re putting a camera down in there. But they stabilized him, whatever that really means, so that’s good.”

“Poor guy.”

“Yeah… Look, I don’t know how much Link wants people to know what’s been happening so if you could just keep it quiet, not tell anybody…”

“Say no more.”

“Thanks. And thank you for coming here. I don’t really want to call our families back home about this right now, everything is just so… There are so many questions, and no answers.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s nice to be around someone who’s kind of in the loop already… and who isn’t freaking out and demanding answers.”

“Well, that’s family for you.”

“Yep.”

“I _will_ demand that you eat something, though,” John said, and pushed the take-out boxes towards Rhett. “It’s cold out so I got us some curry. This one’s tikka masala and that one’s biryani. Do you have a preference?”

“I’d kill for either right now.”

“Grab a fork and take some of both then, let’s split them.”

They did split the two dishes; the curries had lost their toasty temperature but the spices retained their warmth, and Rhett thought that possibly he’d never had such delicious curry in his life. Despite that it was the odd hour of 3:30PM, smack in between lunch and dinner, John joined him. Between bites, John chattered about what he’d done that day at the conference, including the gritty details about who he’d sat with over breakfast and the handouts they’d had at each workshop. Not once did John ask Rhett to engage in this conversation. 

Rhett realized, between forkfuls of biryani and tikka masala, that John was a rare bird indeed. Somehow John knew that Rhett – a man he’d only briefly met – needed the chance to tune everything out. His incessant babble was creating a sort of white noise that Rhett didn’t have to fill with words or actions, didn’t have to respond to. John didn’t even care if Rhett was _listening_ , which was a good thing because Rhett most certainly was not listening. His mind was strung between worrying about Link and being polite to John and somehow this brought his mind to a sort of sweet, curry-laced purgatory.

He gave John a shifty side-eye, wondering absently if the Victorian artists had gotten it wrong and instead of towering, exquisite, androgynous humanoids with flowing locks and flaming swords, angels were actually pudgy, bald, polo-shirt-wearing old men with frames so thick it made them look like insects.

It was in the middle of a conference-related monologue when a man in blue scrubs came through the doors in the waiting room, scanned the room, landed his gaze on Rhett, and headed towards them. He was quite tall, sporting lavish grey curls that bounced a little as he strode forward. Rhett stood to meet him. 

“Hello there, I’m Dr. Alistair D. Marc, MD, MS, PhD.” He presented his ID badge before holding out his hand. “You must be Rhett.”

“Yeah, I’m Rhett,” Rhett said, shaking the proffered hand and worrying about the fact that this doctor had not come to them smiling. Then again, Alistair didn’t look worried either. He looked, Rhett thought, a bit bored. 

“Well, I just wrapped up Charles’s endoscopy. We’re keeping him under for a bit longer so he can rest, get some fluids.”

“Okay,” Rhett said, bracing himself.

“It went a lot faster than usual because I found the cause of the bleeding right away, fortunately,” said Alistair, and reached into the chest pocket of his scrubs. “Right away. Very obvious.” He drew something out of the pocket and opened his hand, palm flat, for Rhett to see.

There in the man’s palm was a tiny, white shard.

“Can you believe it?” Alistair said. “It’s a piece of tooth.”

Rhett gaped. 

“That little thing? _That’s_ what caused all the – ”

“I found this just _jammed_ way down in the wall of the esophagus.” Alistair pointed to his own neck to show Rhett where the shard had been found. “ _Way_ in there, cutting up the muscle. It was irritating his throat and making him cough, which made the shard move around. Lots of bleeding. Charles was swallowing a lot of blood, which is what caused the haematemesis.”

“So that piece is from his chipped – ”

“I matched this shard exactly to his chipped molar, this came from his back molar there.”

“Oh man, I’m so relieved it wasn’t anything worse.”

“That procedure usually takes two hours start to finish – well, I can usually get through it in just under an hour and a half – but once I found this little thing, I could wrap it up in record time.”

“Wow. Then why did it take two hours before – ”

“Well I was thinking to myself, Alistair, why would a piece of tooth end up there, because usually that stratified squamous epithelium just passes things right along.” The doctor seemed to relax a bit, and his mouth now started to grow a strange, bemused smile. “Well I didn’t have access to his recent medical files right away, because our system is so slow right now, but his recent files had shown up once I’d pulled out – pulled the, uh, camera out of him and finished up – so I went to my office and read through those files. Charles reported something metal was wedged in his mouth, obviously that’s what chipped his tooth, but then, I said to myself, the penis that caused all the other bruising in there – ”

“ _Um_ ,” Rhett said, unable to muster anything more intelligent, highly mindful of not only John but of all the other people within hearing range. 

“Yeah, get this, I concluded that the guy’s penis is what shoved that shard all the way down there and stuck it into the tissue of his esophagus. Talk about deepthroating.” 

“Wow, okay, could you maybe – ”

“I mean _all the way down here?_ ” Alistair pointed again at the middle of his own neck before leaning towards Rhett with a cheeky grin. “All I’m saying is _someone_ out there’s walking around hung like a bull, know what I mean? I mean I see ‘em all the time, being a surgeon, but it’s not everyday you see one big enough to do _that_. I feel like I just uncovered evidence of a mythical creature, you know, like finding the tracks of Big Foot.” Alistair gave a little laugh, and looked at Rhett as if expecting him to join in the fun.

All Rhett could currently do was stare at Dr. Alistair D. Marc, MD, MS, PhD, in complete disbelief. 

“Oh come on, I’m just kidding around,” said Alistair, tapping Rhett on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Trying to lighten the mood. I know what happened is serious.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just… Whoever that guy is, he’s lucky the shard didn’t get stuck in _his_ tissue, can you imagine how _painful_ that would have h – ”

“Is he – … Just tell me if he’s okay, doctor.”

“… Oh, well I wouldn’t know, I imagine he got out of it relatively undamaged, except of course the reaction Charles reported – ”

“ _Link. Charles_ , I’m talking about _Charles_ , is he okay?”

“Oh, of course, he’s fine. Sleeping beauty.”

“So no more bleeding?”

“Nope. I didn’t use stitches because I didn’t want to add any more irritation down there. He should heal up.” Alistair dropped the shard back into his pocket. “Well, this doctor is in demand. I called the number for Charles’s case worker, Pam or something, the rape nurse – ”

“ _Patty._ ”

“Something like that, yeah. Anyways she wants this tooth shard filed as evidence, said to get it over to her right away, so… I need to go deliver this little white package.” Alistair winked. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on Charles. If you have any questions the nurse can fill you in. Alright?”

Rhett started to nod but Alistair had already swung around toward the doors, and then had disappeared into the department main.

“What a rude man,” muttered an elderly woman sitting several chairs away.

Rhett closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. His hands were tingling; his jaw was clenched. He had to remind himself to exhale.

“Rhett,” said a voice to his side. “Hey.” John gently grabbed Rhett’s shoulder and pulled him back to his chair. “You don’t look well, maybe take a seat.”

Rhett did, then planted his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He heard John sit back down in his own chair. Rhett wanted to say something – he wanted to say _many_ things – but all he could manage to do for a few moments was shake his head and breathe. 

“Did you hear all that?” he finally asked John.

“Unfortunately I did. I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t think I was supposed to hear that.”

“Kind of hard not to. Please don’t tell anyone. If this gets out, Link will… ”

“Rhett, I give you my word.”

Rhett sat there for a few more moments, trying to let himself settle down, but nothing was settling. In fact, his emotions and thoughts seemed to be accelerating towards chaos. 

“Oh my _god_ , I am so angry right now,” he whispered, face still in his hands. “For _fuck’s_ sake, could you _be_ any less tactful? Why the _fuck_ does he still have a job here? What kind of clueless do you have to be to – ”

“Rhett.”

“ – say things like that? Does he have any fucking _clue_ how much Link has been through? How the fuck could he find _any_ of that amusing? He was _smiling!_ ” Rhett finally raised his head, casting a desperate look at John. “He was making _jokes!_ ”

“Rhett, you _should_ be angry, but maybe you should go check on Link? Talk to the nurse, get some useful details, find out what you can do to help Link? Try to set your anger aside for now. You can take it out again later, at a better time.”

Rhett stared at John.

“Right now,” John continued, “Link would probably want you there with him. And not with a lit fuse.”

“That sounds like such bullshit,” Rhett mumbled, rubbing his face, but John was right. If he let his mounting anger partner with his exhausted mind right now, he’d probably do something really stupid. There was time for doing really stupid things later, _after_ he’d gone to check on Link. 

With that, he very mindfully tried to remove the swaths of anger in his mind, which was difficult because it wasn’t just the surgeon he was angry at, it was the two perpetrators and it was God or fate or destiny and it was the fact that it was winter and their families were half a country away and they hadn’t even gotten to try any Chicago deep-dish pizza yet and now Link wouldn’t be able to because it’d probably be a month before he was allowed to eat solid food again at this rate, not to mention speak, not to mention relax and enjoy the marvelous human he was and the marvelous people he surrounded himself with. 

“Rhett?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m putting aside my anger.”

He grabbed his stubborn, confused, useless blob of anger and set it firmly aside, and told it to wait there with John. 

\+ + + + + 

John Best watched as Rhett’s ridiculous gangly self walked (limping a little) up to the front desk, inquired about visiting Charles Neal, and then followed an attendant through the doors into the ER department. After a few seconds Rhett burst back through the doors, back to his chair, and grabbed the grey robe before disappearing again behind the ER doors. 

John eyed the pile of stuff Rhett had left on his chair. A plastic bag with papers and pieces of clothing poking out. He thought about the grey robe Rhett had just grabbed, the one with the insignia of a place called Sentry on it. 

He opened his iPad and made a note. Then he rose to his feet and went to the front desk. He had some questions.


	19. Leaving Memorial and Going to Bed: Take Two

Link was still sedated when they got to his room. His hair was tousled, his mouth hung open, and, of course, he was not wearing glasses. In short, he looked exactly like Rhett was used to him looking while sleeping. This, and the untroubled expression on his face, helped to push aside some of the residual anger that had clung like a stubborn dingleberry to Rhett on the way from the waiting area to Link’s recovery room. 

There was now an IV line attached in the crook of Link’s right elbow, and another stuck into the back of his left hand, tube snaking up his arm and into a bag of more mystery fluid. He was once again wearing a hospital robe, as well as a set of chest electrodes, a pulse-ox, and a blanket.

 _Like he never left,_ Rhett thought. For all he knew this was the same recovery room they’d vacated not half a day earlier. 

The nurse pulled the IV from Link’s hand and taped it up while explaining to Rhett all the things Link shouldn’t do for the next five to twelve days, like eat, vocalize, breathe hard, or invert his head. She told him to watch for fever or further bleeding, and handed him more papers to add to his stack of things he needed to pay attention to. She then said Link should be waking up within a few minutes, and that she and the doctor would be back to check on him soon. She dimmed the lights and shut the door behind her.

Rhett pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and hoped that if and when Dr. Alistair came into the room Rhett wouldn’t accidentally punch the man in the throat. 

He wrung the gray robe in his hands as he waited, alternately watching Link’s face for signs of wakefulness, watching the door for signs of Alistair, and staring down at his own feet because his brain was mush. He would probably have begun to doze off were it not for the periodic wails of a patient down the hall who was apparently having a much worse time than they were. 

After about ten minutes, Link begun to resurface. Rhett watched patiently as his friend cracked his eyes open, squeezed them shut, made a squeaking noise, fell back asleep, and then repeated. A while later, Link’s eyes (both the red one and the white one) opened and stayed more or less open, blinking and squinting. He made a weak attempt to raise his hands to his face.

“Hey bud,” Rhett said, pushing them back down. “Don’t move too much.”

Link turned his head a bit to squint at Rhett.

“Everything’s fine. You’re good.”

Link watched Rhett for another moment before his eyes shut. A few minutes later they opened and once again stared suspiciously around the room. His mouth moved a few times and then, to Rhett’s great astonishment, he spoke.

“…what… what happened?” he said, or tried to say. Only a few of the syllables actually came out but Rhett understood. 

“Don’t talk, dude. You’re fine, you’re waking up from an endoscopy.”

Link turned a bit to fix Rhett with a wildly incredulous stare.

“…what?”

“Don’t talk, you’re not supposed to talk.”

Link scowled a bit. 

“You feelin’ okay?”

Link blinked hard and stared around the room again.

“What happened?” he rasped, again. 

“Dude, seriously, don’t talk.” If Link couldn’t remember what had happened, Rhett wasn’t about to help Link’s memory along. He’d remember soon enough. 

Link closed his eyes and let out a strange little sigh, and then became still. Rhett thought he’d gone back to sleep but after a minute his eyes opened again and he began to whisper.

“…my sons.”

“Link, your kids are fine.”

“All the… All my sons.”

“They’re fine, Link,” Rhett said, resting his hand on Link’s arm, trying to be reassuring. 

“I’m a salesman,” Link mumbled next, looking disappointed. 

“… Okay, Link, that’s fine, but don’t talk anymore, alright?”

“I’m a _witch_.” 

“Dude.”

“Am I a witch?” Link asked, looking tearfully at Rhett. 

“You can be a witch if you want to be a witch and that’s fine but just… keep your mouth shut, okay?”

“Ugh,” Link groaned. “Such a… such a tragedy.”

Rhett scanned Link’s face, wondering what was going through his friend’s mind. Link shook his head disdainfully and closed his eyes again. Rhett pondered going to find the nurse, but she’d said she’d be here soon. Link stayed still for another few minutes, and then a shiver settled over his body. Rhett could just barely hear his teeth chattering with each wave of tremors. He had no idea if Link was shivering because of the temperature or if it was some kind of post-anesthesia reaction but he draped the grey robe over Link’s chest and arms, just in case. Link gave another uncomfortable sigh, swallowed, and then stilled again. 

For the next minute or so, Link wavered between shivering and stillness, and between sleeping and waking. He asked again where his children were, and then asked Rhett if they were filming. The nurse did return to check on him – rather, she checked on all the various machines hooked up to him. She changed the bandages on his wrists, both of which had become somewhat discombobulated over the course of the last few hours, and made sure his finger splint was still as it should be. She added another dose of painkiller and anti-nausea to the IV bag, told Rhett that all was proceeding as expected, and they could plan on leaving the hospital within the hour. 

Rhett glanced at his very groggy friend and inwardly questioned this statement. 

But she was right. She left, and within a few minutes Link’s eyes had opened and were staying open. He stared at the ceiling and Rhett saw plain as day the moment Link started to remember what had happened. His confusion was replaced by disbelief, then dread, and then after a bit more time Link finally gained back some control of his emotions and covered everything with a thick coat of general disinterest. He stopped trying to talk. When Rhett was sure Link had remembered why they were back in the hospital, and told Link what the surgeon had found buried in his throat, Link just turned his head away and closed his eyes with a sad little sigh. 

“Hey, maybe you won’t be coughing so much now.”

Link didn’t react. 

“Now you can have a full night’s sleep. It’s 5:00, we’re almost back on track with the rest of the timezone. We can go back and sleep like normal people. That’s exciting, man! We can go get a full eight hours!”

This was not, of course, very exciting at all, but it was the best piece of good news his spent brain could come up with at the moment. 

A half an hour passed during which both of them slipped in and out of sleep. Rhett jerked awake every time Link shifted, or another patient down the hall wailed. The next time the nurse came back she flipped on the lights and they both grimaced against the sudden brightness. She set about removing the electrodes, monitors, and IV from Link in a flurry of motion that Rhett couldn’t track. 

“Alright, Charles, ready to get up?” she said, and though grammatically speaking she’d asked a question, it came out as more of a command, and Link made a subjectively-valiant-yet-objectively-pathetic attempt at sitting up. She helped him to right himself and drag his legs out from under the warmth of the blanket.

She had him sit for a few minutes while she finished up some outpatient forms and again ran through all the things he should and shouldn’t do over the next few hours and days. She produced a crate full of what Link had been wearing when he’d come in, and said he could change back now, and did he need help? 

Link took the crate on his lap and stared at it mutely for a moment. Rhett riffled gingerly through it before making a face and pulling it away from Link.

“I forgot your glasses,” he said, “but I did remember to grab some clean clothes. I’ll be right back, gonna go get them.” 

Link nodded absently, fingering the grey robe, and Rhett took off back to the waiting room, making only three wrong turns on the way. It wasn’t until he saw John Best sitting there next to his stuff that it occurred to him to feel bad, because on the face of it he’d been very rude to the friendly old man, especially after John had rushed over to keep him company and deliver delicious Indian food. 

“Hey John,” he said, sheepish. 

“Oh, there you are!” John said, eyes wide, looking up from his Midwest Living magazine. “How’s Link?”

“He’s gonna be fine. He’s awake and they’re kicking us out now so I’m here to grab our stuff, and I am _really_ sorry I left you here like that. I just – I just stopped thinking when the nurse came in and I… I guess I assumed… Really stupid assumption, I’d _never_ do that if I weren’t – ”

“No apologies. You’re just fine,” John interrupted purposefully. “I’m happy to watch your things, or do whatever needs to be done.” He spoke with such honest conviction – it seemed everything he said was said with honest conviction – and Rhett paused, regarding him for a moment. He felt overwhelming gratitude towards John, and amazement that of all the people they could be thrown into with this whole shitty situation it’d be John, and also caution because when were people this nice ever what they seemed? 

“John,” he finally said, “I don’t know _what_ we did to deserve your backup, and I don’t know how we’re gonna thank you, but… we will.”

“Pass on the kindness you’re given, when you can, to whoever needs it,” John said, as if he’d said it a million times, and he said it with such seriousness that Rhett wondered if John had just revealed his own personal life mantra to him. 

Rhett gave John a thoughtful nod, as if he were taking mental notes, but if he were being honest with himself, he simply didn’t know how to respond and his brain wasn’t up for anything more complicated than successfully navigating his considerable body mass back through the waiting room to Link without re-stubbing his toe.

He gathered his things and told John a bit more about how Link was, while still attempting to be vague about what had happened the previous night – not that it mattered much, as no doubt John had gotten the gist of it from the doctor’s comments. John didn’t bring it up, though, and only asked that Rhett pass along his greetings and well-wishes, and that they could always contact him if they needed anything at all. 

They shook hands and parted; Rhett stared as John, in his strange, slouching gait, headed towards the exit, a bounce in his step, his dopey humming trailing behind him until he’d passed through the doors and disappeared beyond the walls of the hospital. 

_He’s either the world’s sweetest old man_ , Rhett thought, squinting after him, _or a psychopath_. Whatever the case may be, it had been a very abrupt parting, especially since Rhett didn’t expect he’d ever see John again. 

When he’d found Link’s room again (no toe-stubs along the way), Link was still sitting on the edge of the bed, robe draped over his lap. He was alone in the room, and as Rhett entered he could see a shadow of something like fear hanging around Link.

“Sorry I took so long,” he muttered, and begun pulling Link’s clothes out of the bag. “Had to say goodbye to John. He waited with me for a while in there. Brought me some, um, food. While you were out. Really nice guy. He sends his regards. Here’s your pants.”

Link took the proffered garment, and handed Rhett a slip of paper. 

“What’s this?”

Link just gestured at it. It was a note, scrawled out in a sloppy version of Link’s handwriting. 

_Any news from my family?_   
_Any calls about results/evidence or if they found the men yet?_

“Sorry, bud, nothing yet. You’ll be the first to know when I get any news.”

Link’s slight facial response was being magnified by exhaustion and drugs, and he looked absolutely crushed. 

“You need any help with that?” Rhett asked, gesturing to the pants. Link shook his head in the most unconvincing way possible, so Rhett loitered nearby, trying to look absorbed in the sheaf of papers the nurse had left for them while furtively watching Link struggle into the pants. He moved very sluggishly, but eventually managed the feat. He didn’t even bother trying with the shirt by himself; Rhett stepped in to help Link into the shirt, very gingerly at first so as not to irritate any of Link’s injuries, but after getting the shirt snagged on Link’s battered ear and then accidentally jamming his own knuckle into one of the darker bruises on Link’s side, and after Link didn’t so much as flinch in response, it became obvious that the painkillers they’d put him on for his post-procedure comfort were doing much more than was necessarily intended. 

Rhett fished Link’s shoes out of the crate the nurse had left and, as he knelt to wrestle them back onto Link’s feet, wondered whose job it had been to take the shoes, and the rest of Link’s bloody clothing, off in the first place. 

“Hey, did Dr. Marc ever come back to check on you? While I was gone?” Rhett asked, glancing up from the laces. 

Link responded with furrowed eyebrows and a silent _who?_

“Alistair Marc, the… surgeon who did the endoscopy, did he check on you?”

Link shook his head.

“You probably never even met him, did you?”

He shook his head again, looking unsure. 

Rhett finished with the shoes, grateful Link would never have the unpleasant experience of actually having to communicate with the man. _Nice of him to not drop in on his patient like he said he would_ , Rhett thought bitterly, and stood. He helped Link into the zip-up hoodie, double-checked to make sure they had all the stuff they’d arrived with, and then Rhett led them back through the labyrinth of hallways. Rhett kept a hand on Link’s arm and they walked carefully. 

When they got to the waiting room Rhett called a taxi. The wait was short, and soon they were once again stepping back into the slush and chill air. It was going to be a short ride back to the hotel but Link still wadded up the robe, pressed it against the window, and seemed to fall asleep against it. 

This was probably a good sign. If he could sleep through the taxi’s quick movements, through the chill air and the noise on the streets and whatever was waiting to haunt his mind, he’d definitely be able to go right to sleep when they got back to their suite. 

As fate would have it, the moment the taxi pulled up in front of Sentry, Rhett’s phone rang. 

It was the police department; they were through with Link’s phone and it could be picked up any time. 

Rhett hung up and tried to decide what to do. Bring Link up to the room, then come back down to the taxi to get the phone? Bring Link with to get the phone? Forget about the phone until the next day? 

He nudged Link’s shoulder.

“Hey, we’re there.”

Link raised his head and looked about blearily. 

“But I just got a call – your phone is ready to be picked up. You want to go on in and I’ll go get the phone?”

Link didn’t say anything but Rhett could see plainly how uncomfortable the idea made Link.

“We could just pick it up tomorrow,” Rhett suggested. 

At this, Link looked crestfallen. He probably wanted to be able to text his family, among other things. 

“Yeah, let’s just go get it now,” Rhett said. He gave the driver new directions and they pulled away once again. It was another fifteen-minute drive to the station, and much as Rhett wished Link would stay in the taxi and rest, Link refused to be left alone. He followed Rhett blindly, keeping close. Getting the phone back was a matter of paperwork and proper identification, which was an issue in Link’s case, but not an insurmountable one, the CPD’s online database being what it was, and being considerably faster than the hospital’s. 

With one dead phone and absolutely no details about what had or had not been discovered, they slogged back to the taxi.

Link dozed again on the way back to the hotel. Once they arrived, Rhett set his sights firmly upon the doors into Sentry. If they could just get through those doors, he thought, they’d be safe. They’d be putting the whole lousy afternoon behind them. They’d be comfortable and they could relax and they could sleep and…

His stomach dropped as they pushed through the doors. 

There people in the lobby. Some were chatting at the front desk, others were gathered in small groups, gabbing amicably with each other. They were all dressed nicely, they all carried themselves proudly, they all smiled. Some were accompanied by neat luggage cases.

Of course. It was Saturday evening in Chicago. This was a fancypants hotel where fancypants people stayed, and now was the time they were all arriving and checking in to their fancypants rooms. One by one they began to cast furtive, curious glances at Rhett and Link. Rhett didn’t blame them. He knew how discombobulated they both looked, dressed half in sleepwear and half in street clothes, hauling an armload of stuff spilling out of plastic bags, Link looking extra shady with the hood pulled up over his head. 

On a different day Rhett might have felt embarrassed, but right now he felt only anger at anyone who trained their stare on them. Link had drawn up even closer to Rhett’s side, head down, arms folded across his front. He was shivering again. 

“We sure know how to make an appearance,” Rhett muttered, and started towards the desk, fervently hoping that nobody in the room would recognize them. 

One person did end up recognizing them. It was Guinness, who’d been sleeping under the desk. He came out and greeted them happily, then once again sat on Link’s feet while Rhett explained to the man behind the desk who they were and where they’d been. 

Once they’d made it into the elevator and the doors closed in front of them, Rhett felt lighter – the weight of all the stares they’d gotten was gone. From the elevator to the hallway, and from the hallway to their suite was an infinitely longer journey than it had been before. The distance they had to cover seemed to stretch impossibly, each step forward demanding more energy than the last. When Rhett opened their suite door he was hit in the face with a vision of how they’d left the rooms, particularly the bathroom. He threw out his arm to stop Link from entering and craned around the bathroom door, grimacing. 

It was clean. 

Rhett backed out immediately, double-checking that they’d opened the correct suite. 

Yes, it was theirs.

He went back in and marveled. How had the staff _done_ that? Not a speck of red on the rug, nothing on the toilet or in the sink. The garbage bin was empty and looked clean enough to eat out of. 

They entered the suite and Rhett locked the door behind them. At that moment he would have been very happy to leave a several-hundred-dollar tip for the cleaning staff, if he didn’t already know that their stay had already racked up several _thousand_ dollars’ worth of expenses. Maybe the cleaning staff would accept tips in monthly installments. He could only hope. 

The first thing Rhett did was find Link’s glasses and apologize again for having forgotten them in the first place. Link immediately put them on the bedside table and flopped gracelessly into bed, still in street clothes, shoes and hoodie and all. 

Rhett worried for a moment, dragging his mind through all the medications and icing schedules and do’s and don’ts. Link should probably be icing his hand, but Rhett didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize Link’s ability to sleep. The only other thing Rhett could think of to do was remove Link’s shoes for him.

“Link, you wanna get under the covers?” he asked softly, shoving the shoes under the bed. 

Link shook his head slightly.

“Keepin’ the hoodie on then?”

Link gave a tiny nod.

“Come get me if you need anything, alright?”

Link snored.

Rhett turned off the room lights and stood in the doorway between their rooms, watching his friend and wondering what the chances were that they’d get through the night without something horrible happening. Without some alarm going off, some nighttime phone call to send them into a panic, without Link waking up in pain and Rhett fumbling around and stubbing his toe while trying to figure out what to do about it. 

He sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and hooked Link’s phone up to the charger. Then he trudged into his own bathroom, cleaned up a bit, pulled off his jeans, turned off his light, and went to stand in the doorway again, arms crossed, biting his lip. He was feeling a tremendous gravitational pull from the bed in his room, and he badly wanted to give himself up to it and fall into sleep’s sweet, mute embrace. The thought of doing this was causing some very unproductive anxiety to roil around in his gut. He feared that once he fell asleep he’d be so deep into it that he wouldn’t wake up if Link needed help. 

The logical solution was to get into bed next to Link again. If anything happened, he’d notice right away. 

Then again, maybe it was best to leave Link alone. After all, they generally both slept better in separate beds.

But this wasn’t a ‘general’ situation. 

Rhett leaned against the door frame and shut his eyes, paralyzed with fatigue and indecision. 

He awoke to someone kicking at him gently. He groaned; he was on the floor, in the doorway between their rooms. Link was standing groggily above him, arms crossed, illuminated by the glow of one of their phones.

“Shit,” Rhett grumbled. “What happened? Did someone call? Are you alright?”

Link just held up the throat spray and gave a thumb’s up. 

“You start coughing again?”

Link shrugged and set the spray down on the table. He nudged his foot into Rhett’s shoulder and gestured to his bed. 

“What, can’t a guy sleep on the floor?”

Link gave him a disapproving look before delivering to Rhett a final affectionate kick and going back to bed. A few seconds passed, and then he whapped the other side of the bed insistently. 

Rhett hauled himself and his sore joints up off the floor and once again slipped under the blankets on the other side of Link’s bed. Link was still on top of the covers, which was just as well because Rhett wasn’t wearing pants. The clock on Link’s bedside table read 1:00AM.

He awoke again with a start at 3:15 in the morning, because an emergency vehicle had gone blaring down the avenue outside the hotel, dragging forth from Rhett’s mind various anxieties and reasons to panic. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to send the worries away with the wail of the fading siren. 

Link stirred; at some point he’d crawled under the covers, and Rhett could feel Link’s hair brushing against his elbow. For a few moments Rhett listened to him breathe; then he sent a little prayer to whoever or whatever ruled over the witching hour, and fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story isn’t meant to be an infinite hell-loop of hurt and worry and interrupted sleep (that would be too real…). Cuddling, flowers, and some god damn answers are all coming up shortly. :)


	20. Rhett and Link in Purgatory

He woke up because a beam of morning sunlight was sneaking through the crack between the window and curtain and hitting him smack on the eyelid.

Rhett groaned, and hauled a fistful of blanket over his head. For a couple of seconds he seriously entertained the hope that, now that he’d made it dark again, sleep would let him back in. 

Everybody who has ever tried this knows, though, that to attempt this is foolishness, unless they are accustomed to falling asleep with a snorkel in their mouth. After those few precious seconds were up, Rhett ran out of oxygen and threw back the blanket, squeezing his eyelids shut against the javelin of sun. He draped his forearm over his eyes and waited for his mind to follow his brain out of the realm of sleep and back into the waking world. 

He remembered where he was, and why. He cursed softly, sighed, moved his arm, cracked open his eyes, and glanced over to the other side of the bed. 

Rhett watched his friend for a moment, to make sure he was breathing. 

The clock on the bedside table (8:17 AM) was now in the company of Link’s bottle of prescription painkillers, which had not been there when they’d gone to bed. 

Rhett sat up in order to better scrutinize Link, and to wonder if Link’s sleep was the sleep of a normal sleeping sleeper, or if it was the sleep of a person who has been bludgeoned into it by a dose of heavy opiates. Link was curled on his side and buried snugly beneath a mess of comforter and pillow, and with most of his face thus obscured, it was difficult to tell what kind of sleep Link was having. 

Rhett took a few moments to sit there in the quiet and wonder what sort of bombshell _this_ day would bring. 

_Dear lord_ , he thought, rubbing his eyes, _please no more bombshells. I will give my left nut for a no-bomb day._

He reached for his phone and squinted at the screen. A crowd of texts, mostly from both of their wives, awaited him. They wanted updates. They wanted news. _Believe me, I do too._

Slowly, because he didn’t want to interrupt Link’s slumber, and also because he was aware that he had the morning clumsies, he extricated himself from the blankets, dragged himself back to ‘his’ side of the suite (blurry though that line had become), into his own bathroom, and peed. 

_Good god I’m dehydrated_ , he thought, and immediately wanted a large, strong cup of tea. Happily, the hotel had provided several options for tea right there in his kitchenette, and he rifled through the selection, landing on a gentle-looking spring Darjeeling. He turned the hot pot on, and as the water began to bubble, so did his brain. 

What the hell was he going to tell their families back home? 

There was absolutely no way to have a conversation with his wife without letting on that he couldn’t let on about something, which in itself would give her a pretty good idea of what he wasn’t letting on about, because Link was famously open about even the most excruciatingly awkward things.

Well, he had a bit of time to figure out how to approach the situation, time zones being what they were. 

His stomach grumbled, and he moved on to the next brain puzzle: 

What the hell was Link going to eat for breakfast? 

Thus began an almost five-day marathon of worrying about Link’s caloric intake. 

He opened the fridge and was faced with the toast, fruit, peanut butter, applesauce, and other stuff that the staff had sent up with room service the previous day. Rhett himself had been far too exhausted to think about putting things in the fridge. Maybe the cleaning staff had done this. 

He reached for the toast and a banana. No way Link could (or would, in the banana’s case) eat either of those. Leaning on the counter and munching, he considered what they had to work with. They had the makings of a pretty tasty breakfast smoothie, if they could get their hands on a blender. The chicken broth from yesterday had disappeared, presumably because the staff didn’t want their guests to die of botulism. More points for Sentry. 

A sudden clatter from the other room interrupted his wandering thoughts. 

He squinted into the darkness of Link’s room. Link was up on one elbow, twisting around to lean over the edge of the bed and Rhett’s first thought was _oh shit, he’s vomiting blood again_. He groped for the light switch, then stumbled over to Link’s side of the bed. 

He got within two feet before Link threw out his arm – the one with the splint – to stop Rhett from coming any closer. The splint smacked Rhett in the thigh and Link jerked back. Rhett didn’t know whether to look for blood, wonder why Link had hit him, or be concerned because Link had obviously just hurt his broken finger by hitting Rhett.

Link had recoiled back against the pillows, cradling his hand, swearing silently with eyes tight shut. Rhett could see no blood anywhere – none on the ground, none on the blankets, and none on Link. 

“What just… are you okay?” he finally asked. 

Link’s breath hissed out between his teeth, and gestured vaguely at the ground. 

Rhett glanced at the floor; there lay Link’s glasses. 

“You knocked your glasses off the table.”

Link nodded, still grimacing. Rhett bent down to pick them up.

“And you didn’t want me to step on them.”

Link nodded again, and Rhett handed him the glasses. 

“So you hit me?”

Link gave him a withering look, and mouthed _I didn’t mean to_ before gingerly placing them on his face. 

“You should be icing that hand. I’ll go get the ice.”

 _Wait_ , Link mouthed. _Where’s my phone?_

“I’ll grab that too. I had it charging.”

Rhett grabbed the ice pack and Link’s phone, and handed both to Link. Link immediately unlocked the phone and started squinting at the various messages, ignoring the ice pack. Rhett sighed and guided Link’s broken hand over to it.

“No news yet from the police on my phone,” he supplied. “Nothing from anybody else either. Our families are demanding news, of course. I figure it’s still pretty early there to be calling, though.”

Link frowned and dropped his phone onto the comforter before flopping back down into his pillow with a grunt. Rhett picked up the bottle of pills on the nightstand. 

“You take these last night?” he asked. 

Link gave a slight nod.

“How many?”

Link squinted at him, looking a tad irritated, but held up a single index finger. 

“It do any good?”

Link shrugged. It was noncommittal and the light was dim but Rhett could still read Link’s face pretty clearly. Perhaps the caffeine was finally kicking in and giving Rhett mind-reading superpowers because he was pretty sure Link was thinking _yeah it helped but not enough and I’m not in the mood to pretend to feel better than I do and also fuck everything._

Rhett stepped out to grab his tea and his phone, then returned and pulled the nearby desk chair up to Link’s bedside. He slouched into the chair and put his feet up on Link’s bed.

“So,” he said, “how you feelin’ this morning?” 

_I’m so sore_ , Link mouthed, and repositioned the ice pack onto his stomach. 

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

_What day is it?_

“It’s Sunday, my man.”

Link grabbed his phone again and, with his broken finger braced against the ice pack on his middle, began to type awkwardly. A moment later Rhett’s phone chimed.

Link: _When can I take another painkiller_

“When did you take one last night?”

Link: _maybe 3am_

“Okay. See if you can wait until 11. Another two or so hours.”

Link made a face.

Link: _I have the worst headache_

“Not surprised.”

Link: _feel like ive been hit by a truck_

“You kind of look like it too.”

Link: _this ice is too cold_

“Why’d you put it there then? It was fine on the bed.”

Link: _my abs hurt_

“Fair enough, you worked ‘em over pretty good yesterday.”

Link: _Im so damn stiff_  
_And not in a fun way  
Ugh my jaw hurts  
I feel gross  
I need a shower  
Im thirsty_

“Such a diva this morning, Link,” Rhett said, and Link threw his arm melodramatically across his face. Rhett was trying to bring some humor into the frame but he was making a mental note to go out and find an ice machine. Clearly one ice pack wasn’t going to cut it today. 

“Well,” Rhett said, then took a loud slurp of tea, “the instructions from the hospital say you’re supposed to stay hydrated and have a bunch of little meals, and when I say meal I mean like blended up goop, throughout the day. You wanna have breakfast or you wanna shower first?”

Link stared helplessly at the ceiling for a moment before typing his response. 

Link: _shower_

“Okay but drink some water first.”

Link: _ok mom_

Link could barely sit up by himself, and once he swung his legs over the edge of the bed he had to pause with his head in his hands and his eyes screwed shut in the universal posture of ‘ow my head’. Rhett brought him some water and tried to convince him that maybe eating first and then showering might be a better strategy but Link wouldn’t have it. This was not a surprise to Rhett but still he was concerned. Once they’d made it to the bathroom Link let Rhett help him out of the hoodie and shirt before giving Rhett an unconvincing thumbs-up as a way to dismiss him. 

Rhett nodded out, trying not to stare too conspicuously at Link’s torso and how the colors had settled into a heavy, cruel violet. 

This time Link pushed the bathroom door almost closed before stepping into the shower. Rhett kept an ear on his friend as he begun to gather up the stuff he’d need to re-dress Link’s post-shower wrist. Then he and his desperation turned to the kitchen to figure out Link’s breakfast.

He plunked the jar of fancypants peanut butter Sentry had delivered onto the counter and stared at it. It was labeled as being ‘artisan’, which was the food equivalent of being lumbersexual. This peanut butter company was so proud of its rough-hewn, grass-fed, free-range peanuts that it was going to grind them up barely enough to call it ‘butter’ and then charge extra for the chunks. What Rhett needed – what Link needed – was some cheap-ass Jiffy shit. Industrially processed into a cream so smooth it could theoretically be used as lube, for if it was lube-able, it was easily swallow-able, which was the current concern. 

He called the front desk and asked about the possibility of borrowing a blender. Negative; the only blenders on the premise were the industrial wall-mounted ones in the kitchens, but would he like to place a special order? Rhett, finding himself suddenly on-the-spot, stumbled through a smoothie order he hoped Link would accept because it was probably going to be the most expensive smoothie he’d ever seen. If he didn’t want it, at least there was the applesauce in the fridge. 

Sentry’s food was good but he had no idea how they’d be paying for it on top of everything else. He’d have to go scan some grocery store for liquid-diet inspiration and pick up more ice packs while he was out anyways. Bags of jagged ice cubes from the hotel’s ice machine may theoretically work but seeing the purple bruises again made Rhett wince at the thought of anything with corners pressing into Link’s skin. 

After Link finished his shower, he attempted to brush his teeth, which went as well as it had the previous day. Rhett once again came in with the bandages. He did as Patty had said to do and poked around to feel for unexpected warmth or pain or unpleasant-looking fluids, but so far it looked about as good as a day-and-a-half-old handcuff ligature could be expected to look.

As he cleaned and re-wrapped the wound he tried to strike up a conversation with Link about their flight back home. They’d planned on flying home Monday evening but Rhett wondered if cancelling the flight and pushing it out later into the week would be wise. 

This kind of conversation was difficult to have for several reasons, not the least being that Link was currently mute. They still didn’t know how long it would take for the justice system to churn its slow wheels, or when the medical test results would come back. That, and Link’s heart was clearly not on board with any kind of discussion. He was now coasting on just the painkillers prescribed from the pharmacy – no more industrial-strength hospital manna-juice. He was downcast and surly and Rhett had the impression that he wasn’t happy with how acutely aware he was of his reality and all the physical and mental discomfort that came with it. 

When they were done, Link made a tired beeline to his phone. Rhett felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and drew it out. 

Link: _Be honest, would it be a bad idea to Facetime my wife?_

Rhett looked up from his phone to regard Link. His red eye alone would be enough of a shock for her, not to mention the bruises. Not to mention the general malaise that hung about his features. 

“Well… Yeah, you look pretty bad.”

Link looked away for a moment, and then typed another message. 

Link: _I just wanna see her and the kids  
I cant stop worrying  
Those guys have my address and they know I got out of that basement  
I bet theyre super pissed_

“That’s a long way for a couple of assholes to go just to exact revenge. They’re probably being super cautious right now. Probably worried the cops are after them.”

Link: _you weren’t there with them you never met them_

“I know they were mad, Link, but be logical, I mean what are the chances they’d bother to go _all that way?_ ”

Link’s face told Rhett he’d taken the wrong conversational path.

Link: _fuck logic  
I can’t just not worry about my family. _

“I know, man, I’m… That was dumb, I’m sorry. I know.”

Link: _Logic is not invited to this party_

“I know, bo. You know what, maybe Facetime is a good idea. Maybe she’ll handle it fine.”

Link let out a miserable sigh and typed.

Link: _I don’t want to upset them though_

“Dude, they’re _gonna_ be upset, there ain’t any way around it. They’re _already_ upset.”

Link: _I don’t need to make it worse by showing off my demon eye_

Rhett bit his tongue. This was just the kind of back-and-forth that would normally drive him nuts. 

Link: _How long’s this eye supposed to stay like this?_

“I don’t know, they didn’t really talk about it in the hospital. Look, why don’t you just text her for now? That’s the only way you can have an actual conversation at the moment anyways. It makes sense to just text.”

Rhett watched Link type something, delete it, type again, delete, and then he dropped both hands into his lap, frustrated. Rhett watched him expectantly, but Link just sighed and turned away. 

“You got somethin’ to say, I wish you’d say it,” Rhett said, as gently as he could. “Get it off your chest, man.”

Link fussed with the splint on his finger.

“I can’t read your mind, Link.”

Link: _nevermind ok_

Link lowered his head and smudged a palm across his face before typing again. 

Link: _Sorry  
Real hangry over here_

“Well I ordered a smoothie for you, they should be bringing it up any minute. Better get your pants on.”

Link got through about half of the smoothie before putting the rest in the fridge. He curled up in the room’s biggest chair with a blanket and the ice pack pressed into his abs, and then stared longingly across the room at the bottle of painkillers next to the clock. 

Rhett took the half-smoothie back out of the fridge and set it next to Link, giving him a meaningful eyebrow waggle before settling down to call both of their wives. Rhett shared as much as he could – which admittedly wasn’t very much – and the women took everything in stride. They had to convince Link’s wife that she should _not_ fly out to Chicago to be with Link and that they’d be home soon enough. 

These were long conversations. The smoothie was gone by the time they were done but Link wasn’t looking any better for having eaten something. 11:00am came and Rhett brought over some water and a painkiller. Shortly thereafter Link threw up the pill, some smoothie, and a thin thread of blood. It only happened once, and it was not followed by any alarming nosebleeds, but it was enough to make Rhett call Patty.

Thankfully she answered; she said the blood wasn’t a surprise and encouraged them not to worry too much. She had no further news to share, and no hints about how much longer until they could fly home. Then Rhett called the airport to cancel the return flight they’d had scheduled for tomorrow, and tentatively booked for a Tuesday evening, that being the only current option. He spent a bit of time worrying about how in the world Link would get through the airport and board a plane with no form of ID whatsoever. He called the airport again and called the police department and learned that nobody really knew for sure how to guarantee Link would be able to board at all. 

He did not share this particular worry with Link, who was busy texting back and forth with his wife and making faces at the applesauce Rhett had presented to him. Rhett did not fault him for his moodiness but it was with a small amount of relief that he finally left their suite to go shopping. 

Link hadn’t been happy to hear that Rhett was leaving, and had immediately begun listing reasons that Rhett should stay. Link would happily foot the bill for more house-made smoothies. Link would just eat chicken broth and smoothies and that would be fine. He could definitely get by with the one ice pack. And what if he started throwing up again? What if he fainted? 

Of course, this list of reasons Rhett should stay was underscored by one unspoken bottom line, which was that Link just didn’t want to be alone. 

Rhett asked him if he’d like to come with. Link declined.

For a January day in Chicago, the weather wasn’t bad. Rhett savored the feeling of stretching his legs (he did _not_ savor the lingering pain in his stubbed toe) and getting some fresh air, and tried not to let his guilt at having left Link behind eat at him too much. In the long run he knew this was the right thing to do – acquire a more balanced meal plan for his friend, and maybe remind Link that being alone did not automatically mean something horrible was going to happen to him. For himself, the small trip into the outside world did his mind a good turn.

His journey around downtown was peppered with text messages from Link, who seemed to be doing his best to maintain some kind of tether to his friend, even if it meant diving into the nittiest, grittiest, most mundane comments. He told Rhett about how the air in the hotel room carried a threatening sort of chill; he told him about the foreboding nature of the clouds rolling in and he reminded Rhett he’d forgotten his warm jacket and should probably come back to get it. He reported to Rhett every time he thought he heard a noise in the hallway, which was approximately all the time; he made an especial fuss about how cold the icepack on his hand was and could Rhett pick up a warmer one this time; he carped at length about the ceaseless roar of the traffic outside the window which was keeping him from taking a nap and likely would drive him inexorably towards insanity; and finally, once he’d apparently grown weary of coming up with new things to complain about, began to punctuate each passing moment with an _are you back yet im going to keel over and die of starvation soon_ sort of threat. 

Rhett responded to some of the texts, just to let Link know he was still there. Link was doing a very Link thing and Rhett was overall heartened. 

He was hungry so he snagged a burger. He’d need to get over how guilty it made him feel to eat solid food when Link was stuck with a liquid diet. After shopping around in two grocery stores and the nearest pharmacy, he returned to Sentry with a couple bags of goods, confidant he’d gotten what Link would need to make it through until they got home, assuming they ever did get home. 

He felt more balanced upon his return; he felt more awake, more able to get them through whatever would come next. He pushed the door of the suite open with his elbow, bags in tow, excited to show Link the photo he’d taken of a very small, very round dog he’d seen in one of the stores.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking for his friend, but Link wasn’t in his room. 

The bathroom door next to him clicked as it was unlocked, and Link emerged. 

“There you are. I got the goods,” Rhett said, holding the bags up. “Got a nice warm ice pack for you.”

Link gave a little nod of appreciation, and reached to help with the bags. 

“Nah-ah, I got them, you take it easy on your hands. Check it out,” Rhett said, dragging it all into Link’s kitchenette. “I got you something with _bee pollen_ in it.” He began emptying the bags, and Link poked at a few of them. “See, aren’t you glad I left? Warm ice packs, pudding, bee pollen juice, some protein drink crap, you’re set. Took the cutest damn picture of a dog, too, it looked like one of them tribbles from Star Trek."

Link picked up the glass bottle of fancy bee pollen juice and pretended to read the label. 

Rhett could tell he was pretending because of the way his face was set, how his eyes weren’t tracking across like they were reading. He saw now that Link’s hands were shaking. Rhett wasn’t sure what to say; Link was doing that thing people do when they try to pretend nothing at all is wrong but really they’re on the very cusp of a monumental breakdown and don’t want anyone to know it. 

Rhett reached over and gently removed the glass from Link’s grasp. Link shot Rhett a brief, furtive glance, and realized he’d been found out, whereupon the whole façade immediately collapsed and his face crumpled miserably. 

Rhett guided him back to the armchair before hurrying into the bathroom. He hadn’t thought twice when Link had come out of it but now he worried something had happened while he was gone.

Not a speck of blood; the sink wasn’t even wet. 

He came back out and sat down on the bed across from Link who was trying to control himself and largely failing. 

“Hey bud,” Rhett started. “You feelin’ okay?”

Link shrugged and let out a shuddering breath. 

“You feel sick?” 

Link shook his head. 

“You wanna tell me somethin’? Text me?”

Link looked up briefly and met Rhett’s gaze. His eyes were bright and pained and desperate and laced with a shadow of accusation that hit Rhett hard. Link looked down and fumbled with his phone for a moment but gave up and set it aside and begun to weep instead. Rhett knew crying wasn’t good for him right now but couldn’t bring himself to say so; besides, Link seemed plenty aware of that, and was struggling to steady his seizing breaths. He’d closed his eyes but couldn’t stop the tears. 

Rhett reached around to grab the blanket thrown over the back of the chair and draped it gently around Link’s shoulders, then fetched a box of tissues. He unpacked the rest of the groceries in silence, stuffing the fridge full of various drinks and sticking the ice packs into the freezer. 

He sat back down on the bed and leaned his arms on his knees. It was hard to look at Link.

“I’m… I’m sorry, man. I thought…” Rhett stalled. _I thought you’d be okay on your own. I should have taken you seriously when you said you didn’t want me to leave. I thought it’d be good for you_. “I just… I’m sorry.”

The flint in Link’s eyes fell away. 

Link: _I just panicked_  
I thought id be fine alone  
Guess you cant leave me unsupervised

“Well I already knew _that_.”

Link huffed a laugh.

For the next few hours, a blob of guilt crouched in the back of Rhett’s mind. It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t doing any good but there it was anyways. He fussed and cleaned and made a few more calls and generally tackled all the mundane little tasks he could think of, but was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the suite. 

Link spent most of his time curled in the chair, either staring at his phone or staring into a void located somewhere near the far wall’s mirror. Rhett knew he was still in physical pain and there was only so much a couple of ice packs could do. 

5:00 hit – one more hour before Link could take another painkiller. Rhett gathered all the enthusiasm he could muster and proposed they do a Sentry Art Crawl. He shoved a protein drink into Link’s hands and they started off in search of terrible hotel art. 

They shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Sentry’s art wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t a museum but it was better than sitting around in their suite. They stood before each piece and texted each other deep, usually immature reflections about the nature of the work, reminding Rhett of all the hours they’d spent during their childhood passing notes back and forth in church, attempting and usually failing to keep their laughter in. 

They found a large saltwater aquarium down on the first floor. They gave inappropriate names to the fish, the shrimp, the three huge snails, and the sea cucumber, and then they left, snickering and feeling like boys again. They visited Guinness at the front desk, and Rhett made small talk with the attendant. When they returned to their suite it was past 6:00. Link took a pill; Rhett snatched a few hasty bites of toast smeared with the pudding Link wouldn’t touch because suddenly he couldn’t stand the texture of one of his favorite foods. 

It was dark and they both wanted this day to be over. They cleaned up and changed into their sleepwear and then agreed to lay in the bed and stare at the TV in the hopes that it would be able to distract them for a few hours until they were both tired enough to go to sleep.

“Today has been a bag of shit,” Rhett muttered, adjusting the pillows behind his back. 

Link, holding an ice pack to his throat and hunching deeply into the comforter, gave him a curious look. 

“You take a dog for a walk because it needs to poop, and when it does you gotta pick it up and carry it around ‘til you get home. I mean normally the quintessential bag-of-shit days are Mondays. You can’t stop a dog from pooping and you can’t stop a Monday from happening.”

Link nodded.

“I usually love a good Sunday,” Rhett continued, aiming the remote at the TV, “but god damn I can’t wait to pitch this one in the trash.”

Link nodded and toasted Rhett with his bottle of bee pollen juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Stevie wasn’t the executive producer in 2013 but I don’t know who was and even if I did I’d still pretend it was Stevie because I love her


	21. Super Secret Bed Thoughts

Link had lied. 

Maybe he’d been too ashamed to tell them what had actually taken place down in the bomb shelter. Maybe his memory had helpfully scrubbed away the events as they’d happened. Maybe, maybe. 

It was a horrible thing to witness, Link stretched out on that table. The way the man standing by his head ran his hands through Link’s hair, the way his fingers spidered across Link’s face, up his neck, over his chest. Link’s shirt being yanked up, the way the man’s huge, fat hands smoothed over Link’s skin, over his nipples and stomach and abs and then the man leaned forward, unzipped Link’s jeans, and slipped the tips of his fingers under Link’s waistband. 

It was all a horrible thing to witness, but the worst thing of all was how Link’s body writhed up to meet the man’s touch. How he lifted his hips to let the man push his underwear down. How there were no handcuffs to speak of and Link could have, had he wanted to, reached up right then and pushed the man off and onto the floor, could have punched him right in the balls but instead his hands, both free as birds, clenched in ecstasy as the man revealed the bombshell Link would try so hard to cover up at the hospital, which was that he had been so terribly aroused that though he could have stopped what had ended up happening, he’d chosen not to. 

Link, hanging his head upsidown off the end of the table. The man, dropping pants and lining up. Link, grabbing the man’s thighs and pulling him closer. The man, thrusting in with a sinful groan, shuddering, reaching to caress Link’s arms, run his hands up to the shoulders and down over his chest. Link, looking so at ease in the middle of performing deepthroat, looking like it was all he ever wanted, rutting himself up into the empty air and letting out a vulgar whimper each time the man thrust into him. Needing nothing to get off except being violently face-fucked by a stranger. Spilling all over his own chest, toes curling, choking around the man in his mouth, tears streaking his face, and finally taking in the last few thrusts and swallowing the load he’d pulled from the man standing over him. 

Link and the stranger, heaving together, alone in the bomb shelter. Link coughing, barking out a raw laugh, reaching down to stroke himself idly. 

“Want anything else from me?” he asked, voice rough and low, staring up with glazed eyes. “I gotta go soon, they’re coming. We could meet later, somewhere else.” 

The man muttered something unintelligible, dragged his pants back up, and left. 

Link rolled onto his side, propped himself up on an elbow, and looked Rhett dead in the eye. 

“Wanna go next?” 

Rhett’s vision clouded over with shock, darkness squeezed in from the walls of the bomb shelter. He reeled; Link was not the person he thought he knew so well. Link was a liar and a – 

His eyes flew open. 

He saw characters on a TV. The screen was throbbing; Rhett’s pulse in his own eyeballs was making his vision jump.

Link was sitting there on the other side of the bed, cradling an ice pack against his shoulder, staring wide-eyed at Rhett. 

Rhett stared back and recoiled. He wished he hadn’t, but his nightmare-self had just witnessed a nightmare-Link and the feelings he’d had toward that Link attached themselves immediately to the man sitting next to him in the waking world and he’d recoiled. 

Link, alarmed, twitched away too, looking confused. 

Rhett shut his eyes, blinked hard. Tried to manhandle his brain out from the dark place it had gone, tried to shove the false memory of his dream into the shit-bag with the rest of that Sunday. His mind was the liar, the betrayer. Not Link. 

Dream emotions are not always easy to shake off, though. 

He opened his eyes again, feeling slightly ill. Link had turned back to the TV, but wasn’t really watching it. Rhett looked down at Link’s wrists. Rhett had _seen_ him wearing the handcuffs. He’d _seen_ the blood and the wounds. There _had_ been handcuffs, and Link had clearly fought against them. And there _had_ been a second man, pinning him on the table. Right? Link had said so. And the bruises on his thighs were a testament to that fact. 

He pressed back into the pillows and stared at the TV, also not really watching. Angry thoughts swirled around his head, biting at him. _You are sick_ , he thought to himself. _Where the fuck did that come from? Why did I need to show that to myself?_

When it came to dreams, asking ‘why’ was almost always futile. After all, why not? Why not have any nightmare at all? Why not dredge up a person’s worst fears, the ones they didn’t even know were lurking in the deepest pits of their hind-minds? 

Maybe the worst part of this was that Rhett was going to try very hard to forget all about this dream, which would inevitably doom him to remember it forever in vivid detail. 

He stewed uncomfortably for another few minutes. What if they got the results back tomorrow and learned that Link had jizzed on himself? As Patty had said, that wouldn’t necessarily point to sexual arousal. Rhett, himself an owner of a human dong, considered this. Yes, high emotions could do it. Yes, maybe being threatened and afraid for your life could do it. Maybe. 

In any case, if that’s what had happened, Rhett would still have Link’s back. 

_I will, right?_

He sighed; his own doubt on this topic made him hate himself. 

He grabbed the remote and turned the volume down. 

“Link,” he said, voice crumbly with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you show Patty the bruises on your thighs?”

Link glanced at him, and his hands curled a little into the blanket over his lap. He did not reach immediately for his phone to respond, and Rhett’s raw, slow mind took this reaction to be somewhat damning. Then what he’d asked of Link finally registered and he could have shot himself. 

“Oh geez, oh shit, Link, I didn’t mean to ask that. I’m sorry.”

 _Then_ Link reached for his phone. He started typing. 

“You don’t need to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked,” Rhett said, but his phone buzzed.

Link: _I didnt know about those bruises at the time  
Even if I had known I wouldn’t have taken off my pants  
Why are you asking?_

Rhett didn’t know how to answer.

Link: _You look like you had a nightmare_

Rhet didn’t know how to respond. 

Link watched him; Rhett found it impossible to read his expression. They stared at each other for a moment but Rhett couldn’t bear the weight of Link’s gaze and he looked away. 

Link shoved aside the blanket and got up. 

“Where you goin’?”

Link merely held up his soggy ice pack. Rhett could hear him opening the freezer and shuffling through the contents. Rhett had never in his life wanted someone to shout at him so badly, and now that he wanted it, it was an impossibility. He had no idea what Link was thinking, how deeply Rhett’s question had cut him, if at all.

Link had a brief coughing fit in the kitchen before returning to the bed with a fresh ice pack, and his prescription sedatives that he plunked down on the bedside table. Rhett felt like a worm, like a bottom-feeder, like that sea cucumber in the aquarium downstairs. He wanted to erase the nightmare, erase his thoughts and his doubts and erase how troubled Link looked as he crawled back under the comforter and pressed the ice pack into his stomach.

Rhett stewed; Link stared. They both didn’t watch half an episode of whatever was on the TV before Link picked up his phone and sent Rhett a text. Link was pointedly not looking as Rhett reached for his phone and contemplated pitching it across the room because he was sure Link’s message would be an accusation.

Link: _do you think im disgusting_

“Oh,” Rhett said, and almost choked on his own utterance.

Link: _because i feel disgusting_

Then Link was the one to throw his phone, but it was a tired, half-assed throw and the phone landed safely on the comforter by Rhett’s knee. Link buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes like he was just tired. 

“Hey, don’t rub your eye,” Rhett said, and reached out for the sake of Link’s demon eye, tried to nudge Link’s hands away from his face.

Link jumped at the touch. Rhett withdrew. 

“You’re not disgusting, Link,” Rhett murmured, and if he could have, he would have shot himself again for his lack of conviction. Somehow the nightmare memory of Link, laying unrestrained and shameless on the table, was still twisting Rhett’s perception and it was as if this Link, his best friend, was responding directly to Rhett’s dream-Link. It was uncanny.

It wasn’t logical, but then again, as the real Link had pointed out earlier, fuck logic. 

Rhett sat up from his pillows and turned towards Link, hoping for some eye contact. Link was leaning forward, arms over his knees, looking about as morose as Rhett had ever seen him. Rhett mulled. Link had been in good spirits when they’d gotten into bed. Only two things had happened since then. The first thing was that time had passed, and a handful of time affords all kinds of opportunities to spiral into a depression, especially since there were currently so many reasons to do so. The second thing that had happened was that Link had seen Rhett awake from a nightmare, and had seen the way Rhett had stared at him. 

They’d grown up pinging their own personalities against the other’s, their sense of selves evolving along parallel paths. Their expressions, their body language, their thought processes, none of these things were secrets to the other. It was not a stretch for Rhett to believe Link could read Rhett’s post-nightmare face. Link could only guess the details of the nightmare but he’d seen the disgust. 

Once again, Rhett mentally shot himself. 

He couldn’t really blame himself for experiencing disgust, or for showing it so plainly on his face upon waking. Just like he wouldn’t really – _really_ , he wouldn’t – blame Link if it turned out he’d popped a load over his own chest. _That wouldn’t mean he enjoyed it_ , Rhett told himself. _Rhett, you shit, you just don’t want to believe it was his because you’re afraid that means he enjoyed it. He didn’t. Look at him, he’s miserable._

Rhett followed where his mind was pointing. Link had buried part of his face in his arms. He was shivering and maybe it was just that he was currently cuddling an ice pack but Rhett doubted that was the only culprit. 

Whatever had really happened in the bomb shelter – whether the evidence was Link’s or somebody else’s, whether Link, who was after all somewhat of a kinky bastard, had on some base level taken a sick pleasure in what had been done – whatever had happened should not change the fact that Rhett had Link’s back. It _wouldn’t_ change the fact that Rhett had Link’s back. 

“Link,” he finally said. 

Link turned his head and glanced at Rhett. His eyes were too bright from the TV’s reflection, so deep and sad and barely open like he was afraid of what would spill out. 

“Oh buddy,” Rhett muttered, and reached for Link’s shoulder, but Link turned back into his knees, heaved a shuddering breath and then, so quietly Rhett almost couldn’t hear it over the TV, he spoke.

“I hate this.”

Rhett felt an overwhelming _something_ crash into him. Panic, dread, love – something had surged up, obliterating the last few nightmare-seeded doubts, and was shaking its finger and saying _no, no, no, don’t go that way._

Suddenly it was imperative to convince Link he wasn’t disgusting. Rhett turned to his friend and hoped he wasn’t about to do exactly the wrong thing but there was no stopping him from trying. One arm behind Link, the other on Link’s closer arm, he gave a gentle tug. There was every reason to expect Link didn’t want to be touched right now, let alone pulled anywhere, let alone wanting someone else to scoot themselves up against him, but Rhett was doing all three.

The space between them disappeared; Rhett leaned against the pillows and headboard and carefully looped his arm around the back of Link’s shoulders. 

Link wasn’t relaxing into it, but he wasn’t pulling away. 

“Just want to make sure you know that I got your back. Always will, no matter what.”

Link shivered. 

“Even if you feel disgusting. Which you ain’t. I’d show you that by giving you an epic hug right now but I don’t know if you wanna be hugged. If you don’t, that’s fine.”

Nothing for a beat, and then Link began to unfurl. He was so unsure about what he was doing. This would have broken Rhett’s heart – Rhett, Link’s life-long best friend – if his heart hadn’t already been broken. When Link’s back finally contacted Rhett’s chest, Rhett didn’t know whether to celebrate or weep because it had taken Link that long to decide it was okay. When Link finally let his head rest back against Rhett’s collarbone, Rhett wondered how much this had changed Link. If he was the same person but with another layer, or a different person with all the same memories. 

Rhett had promised whoever this was an epic hug. Mindful of Link’s bruises, Rhett pulled Link closer and held him, all of Link’s anxiety and self-deprecation and fragility, his doubts and mysteries and pain.

On the TV, a commercial from the local Macy’s told them all about their sale on women’s underwear. 

“Let’s go shopping tomorrow,” Rhett said. “Don’t know about you but I’m getting low on women’s underwear. We could go to Macy’s. Three-pack of French-cut underwear for twenty bucks, that’s a good deal is what that is. Ain’t gonna find _that_ back home in LA.”

Link shifted slightly, settling more snugly into Rhett. He was still shivering.

“And we need to get you something warm, gotta replace your jacket,” Rhett said. He gathered the soft, grey comforter and draped it over them both, trying to wad it up around Link’s front. “We buy enough pairs of lady’s undergarments I bet we could sew them all together into a great parka.”

Link finally let his knees drop from their defensive huddle. Rhett felt him against his own legs, felt him finally give his whole weight to the bed and to Rhett. 

“Call ‘em Pantyparkas,” Rhett muttered. “Or Underouterwear. We can do an episode about that I bet. Sponsored by Macy’s. We tell them about our Outerunderwear idea tomorrow I bet they give us a sponsorship.”

Rhett could feel Link’s breathing becoming deeper, and could plainly feel the tremors that were still racing up and down Link’s body, but they were lessening. The heat from Link’s body was sinking down into Rhett’s chest, through his side, into his leg, and he knew he’d probably be overheating in a matter of minutes and then he’d start sweating and at that point he’d have to decide whether to extricate himself from Link or just stay there, hot and sweaty and awake, all night so that Link could keep sleeping.

Rhett had always envied Link his ability to just conk out. Even in the worst of situations – maybe _especially_ in those situations – Link could turn it all off and hide under the heavy blanket of sleep. 

Rhett had never had that ability. Partnered with the fact that he liked to sleep cool, and that he wasn’t a cuddler by nature, he thought he might be in danger of having a sleepless night. He was willing to sacrifice some sleep, though, if it meant Link got to rest. 

“Gonna take off your glasses?”

Link didn’t respond. 

He hadn’t even needed to take any sedatives. 

Rhett reached over and carefully plucked the glasses from Link’s face and set them on the table. He put Link’s phone next to it too. He turned off the TV, flipped off the bedside lamp, and then spent a few minutes trying to let the darkness coax him to slumber. 

The darkness only provided a fertile canvas over which Rhett could project all his many current worries. 

He worried about what they might learn tomorrow. He worried they may learn _nothing_ tomorrow. He worried about their impending trip to the airport and about Link’s mental state and all the mistakes he himself had made in the past 24 hours and about the mistakes he’d no doubt be making in the next 24 hours. Maybe he’d managed to cuddle away Link’s assumption that Rhett thought he was disgusting but what about tomorrow, and the day after? 

_Would that all problems could be solved by cuddling_ , he thought, but then took it back because that sounded like the kind of world a fanfiction author would create, and he’d heard about the types of problems fanfiction authors created for those characters they supposedly loved the most. 

Link shifted a little and Rhett heard a muffled crinkle. Rhett scrunched his eyebrows. 

“You forget your ice pack in there?” he muttered into Link’s hair; neither Link nor Link’s hair responded. 

He contemplated turning the light back on and dragging the comforter off to retrieve it, and he contemplated shaking his friend awake so he could get it out himself but in the end the relationship Link had established with sleep and with the comforter seemed more sacred than Rhett’s unwillingness to reach under a blanket in the dark and accidentally grab something he shouldn’t be grabbing while trying for a probably-soggy ice pack. 

He snaked his hand under the blankets towards Link’s middle and found it immediately. It was still a bit chilly, despite the heat it had been nestled against. Rhett drew it out and dropped it softly over the edge of the bed, where in the morning he’d probably step on it and let out an embarrassing shriek. 

By now his eyes had adjusted to see vague shadows around the room with the assistance of the light from the clock. Minutes stacked themselves up towards midnight and still Rhett couldn’t sleep. He thought about taking some of Link’s prescription sedatives but knew that would be a dumb idea, besides which there weren’t any refills available and Link might end up needing them.

So the clock spun on towards morning. When the sun came up it lit the room like a furnace and Rhett, who thought he’d closed the blinds the night before, was a little bit peeved. He turned to see if it had woken Link up but Link’s skin was grey as the blanket, his eyes glazed, his body leaning cold against Rhett’s shoulder. Later, the coroner’s report stated that Link had given up and willed himself to death. 

This time, Rhett awoke weeping. 

In the dark Rhett couldn’t separate the waking world from his nightmare. He was now flat on his back and he couldn’t feel Link. He flailed his arm out and connected with a lump; it grunted. It was warm. He pushed his hand under the comforter with no thought of consequences, found Link’s shoulder, found his chest, and pressed his palm down until he could feel Link’s heartbeat tapping back against him. 

Link muttered incoherently and turned onto his side, towards Rhett. 

The only reason Rhett was able to fall back asleep was that Link let him keep his hand there.


	22. Eden Stinks, and Other Discoveries

In the morning, after Link woke himself up with the beginning of an irritating, persistent cough that would haunt him for the next ten hours, they decided to visit Lincoln Park Conservatory, a tropical Eden under a glass dome perched down near the broken, heaving, ice-skimmed hellscape of Lake Michigan. 

Link had had a relatively uninterrupted sleep, having only gotten up once to take another painkiller and swallow some numbing spray. Rhett knew that Link had had a good night’s sleep because he himself had been mostly awake to observe this. His own night had been a series of deep, slumberous falls into one nightmare or another, followed by the sudden jerk awake, reminding himself what was real and what was not, checking on Link, stewing in frustration before inevitably giving in to the heavy, heavy weights of his eyelids and continuing the cycle. 

Around 7:45AM he carefully extricated himself from the mess of blankets and went to his side of the suite to take a piss and stare morosely at himself in the mirror. He needed to trim. He needed eye cream or concealer or something to hide how sunken his eyes looked. He needed Botox to get rid of the startled expression staring back at him.

“You need sunglasses, is what you need today,” he muttered to himself. “And caffeine.” 

He lumbered towards his suitcase but ended up sitting on the end of his untouched bed staring at his phone. More messages from their families. More nothing at all from the police, from the hospital, from Patty. It was Monday; he hoped – he _so_ hoped – they’d get _something_ today. Answers. Results. News that Dr. Alistair D. Marc, MD, SOB had had his license suspended and was at this very moment downing his third bloody mary at the local diner and about to get punched in the face by the wait staff for making lewd jokes about his breakfast sausages in front of a young mother and her children who just wanted to enjoy their waffles in peace for god’s sake. 

_Oh stop_ , Rhett thought to himself, rubbing his eyes. _Don’t start the day angry. There’ll be plenty enough time for that later._

He hated the thought of another day stuck in the hotel waiting. He knew Link needed to rest and heal and he knew they needed to wait for people to get back to them with news but shit on a stick did they have to hole up like a pair of limbless grubs, twitching listlessly in the dark, waiting for fate to either grant them metamorphosis or send a hungry skunk to put them out of their misery? 

“Wow,” Rhett mumbled, and went to fix a strong cup of tea. Halfway through rifling through his tea options he decided today was a coffee day. He made a pot; Link would probably want some too, but it would have to be lukewarm. 

Over coffee and a monstrosity of a sandwich comprised of stale toast, pudding, and artisan peanut butter, Rhett thumbed through various things Google recommended that they do during their stay in Chicago. The Art Institute? No, they’d already done their art crawl the previous night. Ice skating? That was laughable. Going to see a show at the Broadway Playhouse sounded fun but expensive, especially considering how much this trip had cost them already. 

The Lincoln Park Conservatory popped up on his phone like a warm hug, promising warmth and flowers and palm trees, and free admission to boot.

Bolstered with a good plan, Rhett inhaled the remainder of his sandwich abomination and then returned to the bathroom to groom away some of the wild hairs sticking out of his beard.

Link woke himself up around 8:30. Rhett, now dressed, grabbed the throat spray and an ice pack and padded back over to Link’s bedside to take stock of his friend. Link was curled on his side, quiet little coughs shaking his body. His eyes were screwed shut. He looked tired and pissed. 

Rhett handed him the throat spray. Link grabbed at it and took a few spritzes from his prone position. He passed it back to Rhett and continued to cough for a few moments before swallowing painfully and finally cracking open his eyes. 

“Morning, bud.”

Link just blinked at him, squinting against the light peeking around the edge of the curtain. Rhett offered up the ice. Link took it and pressed it to his shoulder.

Rhett was afraid this particular silence would begin to fill with uncomfortable memories of the previous night, so he didn’t wait to start talking. 

“If you’re up to it, I thought we could go to a conservatory today. It’s down by the lake. Indoor gardens. Probably real humid and warm, it’ll be good for your breathing. Get this, it’s called Lincoln Park. You’ll be Link in Lincoln Park.”

Link did not react. 

“Oh come on, when will I ever get to make that joke again? At least throw something at me.”

Link threw him the world’s tiniest little smirk.

“There’ll be flowers and shit. Ferns. We can just go take a mosey around. Be just like being back home in California.”

Link was not enthused. Then again, it became obvious once he attempted to get out of bed that his body was giving him considerable amounts of grief. He moved slowly, carefully, like his joints were full of ground glass. Rhett chewed his lip as Link disappeared into his bathroom. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to go out after all. Maybe this would be another day stuck inside. 

Eventually Link reappeared. Rhett changed the bandage on Link’s wrist and helped him into some day clothes before foisting upon him a protein drink and the lukewarm coffee he’d prepared earlier. Half an hour later and it was time for another painkiller. They both spent a few moments checking in via texts with their respective families and letting the caffeine (and painkiller, in Link’s case) blossom in their bloodstreams. 

Just as Rhett was opening his mouth to suggest they hit the conservatory, his phone rang. 

He looked at the screen.

“It’s Patty,” he said, glancing at Link. Link lowered his own phone and watched as Rhett answered. 

“This is Rhett.”

_“Rhett, this is Patty. Good morning.”_

“Morning. Link is here, mind if I put you on speaker?”

_“Go ahead. I was just calling to check in, touch base with Ch-… with Link about how he’s feeling. Sounds like Saturday wasn’t much fun.”_

“Yeah, Saturday was awful. But I think… I think we’re doin’ a little better today so far.”

Link coughed.

“I mean he’s still coughing a little but no blood yet this morning.”

_“That’s great news.”_

“A little yesterday but not bad.”

_“Okay. You let me know if that persists. Sleeping? Eating?”_

“Yeah, both are hard but we’re managing. He’s managing. Are you managing?” Rhett looked at Link. Link nodded. “Yeah, he’s managing. Just took another painkiller. Had a protein drink for breakfast.”

_“How are the wrists?”_

“So far so good. No warmth, like you warned about. Keepin’ them nice and clean.”

_“Beautiful. And how is the broken finger? Any significant pain, more swelling?”_

“No, it seems okay.”

_“Splint staying in place?”_

“I believe so,” Rhett said, as Link nodded again. 

_“And his eye, is it still bright red?”_

Rhett squinted at Link’s demon eye. 

“It’s fading a little. Still ugly.”

_“Sounds about right. Any new bruises appearing on his face or body?”_

Rhett, who had begun to get a little swept up in all the positive reactions Patty was giving them, felt himself falter. He looked at Link, thinking about the bruises on his friend’s thighs, about their implications. Link chewed his lip and then shook his head.

Rhett cocked his eyebrow just a little. Link looked at the floor.

_“Rhett? Hello?”_

“Yeah. Sorry. No, no new bruises.”

_“Nothing more on his chest? I’ve been a little worried about possible rib fractures. I want to make sure we catch that if anything’s developing. Any new dark red marks and we’d want to take a look at them.”_

Rhett looked at Link again. Link gave him a deer-in-the-headlights stare before giving in with a sullen sigh, standing up, and struggling with his shirt. Rhett stood to help him, grimacing as yet more evidence of how well things were _not_ actually going became apparent. Link shivered uncomfortably under Rhett’s scrutiny; his shoulders were both livid and each forearm had purple striations crawling down from various puncture sites. His back wasn’t bad but the welts and bruises on his front looked no better for having shifted deeper into a dark purple – almost blue, almost black in places. 

“Well, I don’t see any new _red_ marks.”

_“Good. Any new pain? Any sharp pains in the chest?”_

Link shook his head, drawing his shirt back down over his skin.

“No, Link says no,” Rhett supplied. 

_“Separated shoulder, are you keeping it iced?”_

“Yeah, we’re doin’ pretty good with that. Not getting any worse, I don’t think.”

She ran through a few other questions and Rhett answered to the best of his ability, trying to read Link’s face and once or twice relying on the responses Link typed into his own phone to show to Rhett. Patty said she was expecting to call them again later in the day to discuss some test results, but had nothing for them at the moment. 

“Say,” said Rhett, before they hung up, “Did Dr. What’s-his-butt ever drop off that piece of Link’s tooth? Seemed like he was happy just telling everyone within earshot how great he was. And he never showed up again to check on Link after the endoscopy.”

_“Oh, Dr. Marc?”_

“Yeah, Dr. Marc.”

_“He - … I don’t know what you said, Rhett, but he’s in deep.”_

“… What? He’s… What do you mean?”

_“I mean he never dropped off the tooth, someone else did, because they came down hard. Good for you. Alistair… I shouldn’t say this, so don’t let this get back to anybody, but he’s notoriously… Well, he’s a jerk. Good at what he does but so inflated.”_

Link stared at Rhett, confused. Rhett stared at the phone, also confused.

“I didn’t… Are you saying he’s being, like, investigated?”

_“His license has been suspended, yeah. He’s on probation. It’s about damn time.”_

“But I didn’t say anything. I wanted to but I didn’t.”

 _“Oh, really? Well,_ somebody _got in touch with the Board and filed a serious grievance about his behavior in the waiting room. I thought it was you. Yeah, he’s being investigated.”_

Link prodded at Rhett’s arm, asking silently what was going on. 

Rhett thanked Patty for that little spark of good news, and they said their goodbyes. Rhett fussed with his screen and pretended to get his phone case caught on his sleeve, then made a show of setting the phone down out of spilling-distance from his coffee, and then, because he didn’t know how else to stall, pretended there was a piece of crud stuck in his eye. 

Link watched him do all this, waiting for an answer. 

Rhett sighed. 

“Yeah, so the surgeon who did your endoscopy was kind of a butt.”

Link looked concerned. 

“Like, apparently he did a good job, and everything went just fine, whatever. It’s just when he came to the waiting room to tell me what he’d found he was just…” Rhett gestured vaguely. “He… Well, he… He wasn’t quiet.”

Link watched him expectantly. Rhett felt like Link was owed the truth, but in this case the truth was stupid and possibly unnecessary. 

“I mean he just… He just… He didn’t need to blab about your case so loud that the whole waiting room could hear him. He was just being an asshole. Talkin’ about how smart he was and stuff. And… Well, and John Best was with me and he… he heard everything. He didn’t mean to but… Dr. Dumbass made it difficult _not_ to hear. So John… He didn’t ask any questions but he, um, he knows. Kind of. What happened.”

Link looked down at his half-full mug of lukewarm coffee.

“I was angry but I just wanted to… I was tired, and they said I could visit you, so I just dropped it and went to sit by your bed. I’m _guessing_ that… Wow, John seemed so placid when I watched him leave, he was humming and everything. I bet he filed that grievance.”

Link sloshed the coffee around. He looked ashamed. 

“You know,” Rhett continued, desperate to say something to make Link feel better, “John is kind of a weird old man but I think he’s, like, some kind of actual badass. I bet he’s had a crazy life. He seems like he’s seen some shit. You get that impression from him? When you guys were having dinner the other night?”

A tiny little smirk broke out on Link’s face, and he nodded. Rhett felt marginally better.

“Yeah, not surprised. He’s probably batman. Like, retired batman. Like a wise old batman. Like batman Yoda.” _I’m gonna have to name my next kid after this man_ , Rhett thought. _Helping find Link, bringing me curry, now this?_

Rhett made a mental note to call John later.

They got into their warm clothing and ventured out to hail a taxi to take them to the conservatory. Rhett kept up a steady stream of dumb conjectures over John Best’s actual superhero identity, feeling as if the conversation about Dr. Marc had been a narrow miss. The surgeon had certainly violated some professional codes by doing what he’d done. He’d definitely violated Link’s privacy, and if Link ever got wind of what the doctor had actually said, no doubt he’d feel another kind of violated, which was precisely what Rhett was trying to avoid by filling their transit time with caffeinated chatter. 

From the taxi to the conservatory doors was a brisk walk against a blustery west wind. Rhett felt as if they were approaching a church – a cathedral – a huge, glassy haven of warmth. A few other people headed in the same direction, both in front of and behind them, and Rhett could tell it was making Link uneasy. He wasn’t sure whether it would be better to walk behind Link so his friend felt secure from the back, or walk in front to blaze a trail, so he settled on walking so close at Link’s side that the two of them were drawing furtive glances from passersby before they even got to the huge glass doors. 

This wasn’t necessarily a new thing for them, though. 

“In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn a stately pleasure-dome decree,” Rhett muttered, as they passed through the glass doors. “Something something blah blah dreams and opium, by Coleridge. One hell of a pleasure dome, huh, Link?”

Link nodded, but was distracted by an elongated clot of humans all staring and craning towards one of the four huge glass domes of the conservatory that branched out from the foyer. Everyone seemed dead-set on getting into the Orchid Room.

Things they learned in the foyer:  
1\. It was their great fortune to be present during the blooming of one of the largest flowers in the world: the rare titan arum, which bloomed once very ten years, and was currently sitting in the conservatory’s Orchid Room being gawked at by a long, shuffling line of people snapping photos.  
2\. The conservatory’s marketing team was trying really hard to make the Show Room and its current “Pansy Party” seem tempting to visitors, an effort made mostly in vain.  
3\. The marketing team hadn’t even tried to make the Fern Room look interesting, and nobody at all was heading towards its doors. 

Rhett took Link’s elbow and led him through the crowd of people to the doors of the Fern Room. Once they pushed through and the door shut behind them, the buzz of the crowd in the foyer dropped away, and they found themselves staring at each other in wonder.

This was because the warm air in the Fern Room was solid, thick with humidity, and it was doing something to them both. In Link’s case it had immediately fogged his glasses and he whipped them off so he could continue to stare at Rhett. They breathed at each other incredulously for anther moment before Rhett broke the silence. 

“Home, right?”

Link nodded, smiling.

“God _damn_ , never thought I’d miss the humidity but _man_! They don’t make air like this in California!” They both pulled off their coats, unzipped layers and let themselves breathe deep, letting the atmosphere drag their memories back across the country to North Carolina. 

Smiling like the nostalgic idiots they were, they stepped further into the dome. Greenery arched over the cobbled path, huge ferns swooning against each other in masses that obscured the glass walls. An artificial creek spilled down the side of a rock installation, from which sprang tufts of ferns and mosses so dense that Rhett was tempted – sorely tempted – to launch off the path and see what else was buried in the jungle. 

_Do Not Touch the Plants_ , said a sign, and he sighed. 

They wandered the paths, giving in to the illusion that the Fern Room was much larger than it actually was. A few other people passed them by, but all-in-all it was a quiet escape, Link looked relaxed and wasn’t coughing anymore, and Rhett felt a little kernel of happiness dare to take root and poke its shy little head up from the depths of his soul. 

His phone rang. 

“Hello, this is Rhett.”

_“Hello Mr. McLaughlin. This is Stan with Memorial Forensic. I have some results for Charles Neal. My records state you’re the contact person.”_

“Y… Yes, that’s me, yes. I have Link – I have Charles right here.” Rhett grabbed Link’s elbow and drew them towards a little bench in an inset against a rock wall.

Things they learned in the Fern Room:  
1\. The semen Patty had scraped off of Link’s front wasn’t his own. The DNA did not match anyone in the CODIS database.   
2\. The handcuffs he’d been stuck in had come back with traces of two other people’s blood on them - two females - and Link would need another round of prophylactics for bloodborne pathogens.  
3\. Link’s blood alcohol levels had been elevated at the time of the blood draw.  
4\. This fact would show up on the police report as slightly incriminating. That Link had reported having been doused in the face with vodka apparently would not matter. 

The rest of the walk through the Fern Room wasn’t as pleasant. Rhett was stewing about how snippy Stan had sounded when he’d said being drunk never helped a person’s case, nevermind that in this situation Link’s sobriety had been taken from him by force, and up the nose to boot. For his part, Link had closed himself off from the humidity-induced joy, his thoughts occupied with any number of things Rhett could only imagine. 

There were probably all kinds of retrogressive implications to the revelation that Link hadn’t popped a load over himself during the course of the assault, but Rhett was trying very hard to put that whole wad of worry from his mind. 

They passed into the Palm Room, which was vaulted and arched and would have felt downright holy were it not for the fact that an entire plague of school children were apparently having the best field trip of their lives. Rhett and Link wandered carefully past the green understory of fans and umbrellas, periodically stepping aside to let a pod of kids run screaming down the path. The only thing they learned in the Palm Room was that one should never visit a conservatory on a day that school is in session. 

After they’d come to the Palm Room’s exit, Rhett led them back to the foyer, sat down on a bench, and pushed an electrolyte drink into Link’s hands. Link sipped it without fuss, and Rhett watched as the line for the Orchid Room dwindled. Either plant nerds were an early bunch or the crowd they’d seen before had all been part of a tour. Eventually Link finished the drink and they watched as the flowing disaster of kids tripped out through the Palm Room and continued straight back out into the winter winds. 

“Let’s go meet this big-deal flower, shall we?” Rhett asked. Link stood and followed him. They passed into the Orchid Room. 

Things they learned in the Orchid Room:  
1\. The titan arum is also known as the Corpse Flower, and included in the unique bouquet of odors released by its spadix are the same chemicals that wafted from the likes of smelly feet, rotting fish, Chloraseptic, sweaty socks, and bad cheese. Link gagged immediately.  
2\. The titan arum, whose thick, pale spadix can reach the incredible height of ten feet tall, is also known as the _Amorphophallus titanum,_ meaning ‘giant deformed penis’, a visual that made Link gag immediately as well. 

Rhett got a brief glance of the huge flower but was largely occupied with guiding his gagging friend quickly to the doors. It _would_ have been interesting to learn more about why in the world this particular plant thought it needed to commit the sin that it was currently committing upon the air they breathed in order to be pollinated, but not today. 

They made it through to the next room – the Show Room. They found a bench and Link sat, dropping his head between his knees and drawing shaky breaths. A few people laughed as they passed. Rhett threw some angry glares at them. It would have been funny if the act of gagging wasn’t liable to start another cascade of regrettable events. Link folded his arms over his knees and kept his head down, doing battle with the beginning of another coughing fit. Rhett must have looked quite worried as he patted his friend gently on the back, because a conservatory volunteer sidled up to them and offered to fetch some water. Link nodded.

When the volunteer returned, Rhett asked her about the “Pansy Party” winter show, mostly in order to give Link time to compose himself. The volunteer dove happily into a long-winded explanation and no doubt would have gone on for quite a few more minutes if Rhett’s phone hadn’t rung again. 

Things they learned in the Show Room:  
1\. Pansies are one of the oldest cultivated flowers on earth.  
2\. Pansies are tough-ass plants that can survive temperatures that would give a human frostbite, and they are also able to thrive in near-drought conditions, making them infinitely more tolerant than the average whiny human.  
3\. The word 'Pansy' means 'to think', and has developed into a derogatory term for effeminate men who, back in the day, were perceived to 'think too much', or 'think like a woman'. (Based on the facts, if Rhett were to turn into any flower, his top choice was now the Pansy, survivalist plant as it was.)  
4\. The police who called and interrupted their conversation about Pansies wanted Link to know that there were no reports from any hospitals in the area about anybody coming in over the past few days sporting a huge, deformed, crab-allergy-inflamed penis. No leads at all on the man or men who had supposedly committed the crime. 

Link had just begun to seem interested in the conversation about the incredible edible Pansy when the phone call had come through, and by the time the call was over, Link’s head was back between his knees. 

“Breathe, bud,” Rhett murmured, rubbing Link’s back. “We’re safe here.” _Were they, though?_ “Those shits don’t know we’re here or where we’re staying. You're safe right now. And if they did show up you know I wouldn’t let ‘em touch you. I’d bring them over to see that Corpse Flower and stick its giant deformed spadix up their asses. It’d be like Vlad the Impaler but instead of them metal spikes it’d be a Corpse Flower.”

Link just buried his face in his forearms and tried to hide the fact that he was sobbing. Rhett scooted closer and lay his arm across Link’s back, and gave the stink-eye to anybody who glanced their way. He kept an especial eye out for people who looked remotely like rapists. This was very judgey of him and he knew it but there was no way to stop it. The one man he thought looked slightly suspicious was the one who ended up stepping towards them and silently offering a wad of tissues. 

Rhett nodded his thanks and took them. He hadn’t thought to bring his own. He pushed them into Link’s hands and continued to wait. It wasn’t hard to understand. Link had probably spent the last two and a half days hoping fervently that his attackers – the ones who’d promised to come back and kill him – had been apprehended and were locked away. 

_At some point_ , Rhett thought, _we’ll get through a day without any tears._

It wouldn’t be today, though. It wouldn’t be the next day either.


	23. The Chicago News

One might think that a person who goes to a conservatory in the middle of January is running from winter’s bitterness and the inevitable suffocating drama of being cooped up indoors with coworkers, customers, and, worst of all, family. If that were the case though, why was every single person who walked into the Show Room throwing Link, who was quietly having a meltdown, furtive stares instead of keeping their eyes on the god-damned pansies? 

Rhett wanted to announce loudly that if people really wanted to see drama they should quit looking for it in the conservatory and go pay a visit to the nearest hospital’s waiting room. 

Thankfully this was the Midwest, where people at least made an effort to pretend that drama such as this was none of their business. Only four of the dozens of people who walked by actually approached them and asked if everything was alright. _Yes, we’re fine, thanks for asking._

Of course they weren’t fine but their options were limited. Stan with Memorial Forensic had said, over the phone, that Link could drop in at Memorial any time that day to get a shot of some kind of antiretroviral prophylactic that would inhibit any bloodborne pathogens he may have picked up from the handcuffs. Rhett knew the hospital was one of Link’s current top three least favorite places, so wanted to delay that trip for a bit to allow Link to calm down.

The best Rhett could come up with was to move to the Fern Room, which at least got less traffic. For Link this involved straightening up and actually facing people, which was unfortunate, and also moving through a public space with his back exposed, which was terrifying, but Rhett walked close and kept a hand planted firmly in the middle of his back. By the time they returned to the little alcove in the Fern Room with the bench, Link had stopped weeping but had the shakes almost as bad as he’d had them coming up from the bomb shelter with Rhett and Officer Benson. 

They sat on the bench for a while, Rhett pretending to be deeply interested in the liverwort clinging to a nearby rock but stealing his own furtive glances at Link in an attempt to gauge whether the fits of trembles were getting more or less frequent. Once he was convinced Link was beginning to relax, he pulled another drink out of his coat and handed it over. 

Link: _Where the hell are you keeping all these drinks_

“You know I got a hollow leg, man.”

Link: _If I drink this I’ll surely explode_

“Well there’s a bathroom in the foyer. Come on.”

Rhett got up and watched Link expectantly, hoping not to give him too much time to worry about how vulnerable a place a public restroom is, or how awkward it was to want your friend to accompany you. Rhett accompanied without question, though, gamely willing himself to pee as well in a ridiculous act of solidarity. _Like teenage girls,_ he thought as they did their business, smiling at first because it was funny and then not smiling at all because probably teenage girls commonly had the same reason as Link to want to visit the restroom in pairs. 

They returned to the Fern Room. Rhett was mollified to see that the bottle in Link’s hand was only shaking a little now, where he was holding it up on his knee and not drinking any of it. 

“Dude,” said Rhett, tapping his finger meaningfully on the top of the bottle. 

Link: _done lost my appetite_

“Well you need the calories so try to drink some.”

Link: _you aint my mom_

“Want me to call your wife and tell her you’re not – ”

Link rolled his eyes and unscrewed the cap before taking a few sips.

“Seriously, Link,” Rhett muttered, staring up and down the path in front of their bench, because Link’s paranoia was very contagious. “It’s been like two and a half days since you’ve eaten, I mean really eaten anything, what is that, sixty hours? Seventy or something?”

Link: _Not that anyone’s been counting or anything_

“I just wanna make sure I’m not gonna be returning a lanky-ass skeleton man to your wife, okay?”

Link: _I’m drinking the damn drink ok calm down_  
_Also I’ve seen what you been eating, don’t call the kettle black or whatever the saying is_  
_Pudding sandwiches and shit_

“Pudding sandwiches with _peanut butter_.”

Link: _It’s after lunchtime, you should eat too._

“I’m fine. Just drink that and let’s get this other prophylactic thing taken care of.”

Link: _Tell you what I’ll drink this and get a shot after we find you some actual food._

Rhett stared blankly at the liverwort for a moment. Actual food sounded delicious but he was pretty sure there was a special place in hell for people who ate actual food in front of their friend who could not eat actual food. 

Link: _I know what youre thinking and im not gonna be jealous of your food. Seriously I have no appetite right now_

They bantered a little more but were soon heading back out into the chill January air to find Rhett a late lunch. Their taxi suggested a casual little café nearby, where Rhett ordered the weirdest-sounding sandwich on the menu, just to ensure Link wouldn’t be jealous. They found a table that let them both sit with their backs against a wall. Rhett realized he’d been quite off by assuming Link would be able to give his attention to anything at all besides scrutinizing every single person who came into the café. Link did drink his drink but didn’t look particularly happy about it. 

Rhett would have been _very_ happy about his bacon, arugula, and fig sandwich, were it not for the fact that enjoying food still felt like it’d be a sin at this point. 

“You know,” he said quietly, between bites, “I mean I wasn’t there, maybe you’d have a better feel for this, but what if… nobody reported a man coming in with those symptoms because the guy, like, I don’t know, died before he could get to the hospital?”

Link typed furiously. 

Link: _he was acting like he might die but he might have been being dramatic_  
_If he did die thatd be great but his buddy has all my info, my address_  
_Im worried he’d want revenge_  
_And if the guy didnt die HE’D really want revenge_  
_Revenge either way_

Link’s gaze snapped up from his phone as an elderly couple entered the café. 

Rhett finished his sandwich and wondered sadly if Link would spend the rest of his life jumping every time someone opened a door, too nervous to have an appetite, back to the wall, never going out. That would be a tragedy, but it would be understandable. Link had a point. Rhett could have countered with saying it was just as likely – probably more likely – that the men were spooked now, knowing Link had gotten out, knowing the cards they’d stolen had alerts on them, knowing they were wanted men. Maybe they wouldn’t want to touch Link with a 50-foot pole. Maybe the idea of traveling all the way to California simply to exact revenge was on the absolute bottom of the list of things they were inspired to do. 

Such a pile of ‘maybe’s would be a useless, insulting offering, so he finished his sandwich and said nothing, watching people bust through the café door laughing and chatting, ordering fancy lattes and paninis as if they had never had to worry about who was coming through the door behind them. 

“Some day,” he muttered, crumpling up his napkin and brushing absently at his beard. Link spared a quizzical glance at him. Rhett hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “This is shitty, man, but some day…” _Some day it’ll all be in the past, it’ll all be behind us, and we’ll be just like those kids, laughing and joking and so blithely unaware because that’s how it should be._ He could not bring himself to say his thoughts out loud, but the way Link was looking at him told Rhett his thoughts were transparent enough without having to be spoken. 

Rhett sighed.

“Well,” he said, and stood. Link followed very closely behind. Their next taxi took them back to NorthShore Memorial, where Link did an admirable job of toning down outward signs of discomfort that came with returning to a place associated with so much trauma. Rhett was still painfully aware of the effect this place was having on his friend, and hoped fervently that this would be an in-and-out sort of deal, but of course in keeping with the rest of how their stay was going this would not be the case. 

They were directed to sit in the waiting room. This was not the emergency department’s waiting room, and there were no wailing women waiting to give birth, no teenagers wearing sports jerseys gritting their teeth against broken appendages, no pale and worried family members awaiting news of loved ones. There were horrible, pastel still-life prints of flowers and fruits on the wall.

Link: _thought they already gave me a prophylactic_

“Yeah they did, but this must be… I don’t know, maybe for – ”

Rhett’s phone went off. 

“Hello?”

_“Hello, this is Dr. Patty Onyeneme. Mr. McLaughlin?”_

“Yeah, this is Rhett. Hey Patty.”

_“I have a little more news. Are you with Link?”_

“Yeah,” Rhett said. He glanced at Link, who was watching him. “I’d put you on speaker but we’re in the waiting room.”

_“No problem, we can… Wait, which waiting room?”_

“Memorial. Not for the ER. For the prophylactic.”

There was a pause.

_“Prophylactic?”_

“Yeah, the… Link apparently needs another one. Because of the blood they found on the handcuffs.”

_“Well that’s interesting because he’s already had his first dose.”_

“That’s what he just told me.”

_“Hang on a moment, Rhett, I’m gonna make a call. If anyone comes to get him just have them wait.”_

“… okay.”

She hung up. 

Rhett glanced at Link.

“Somebody in the records department fucked uuuup,” he sang quietly, which turned out to be exactly the case. Patty called them back in a few minutes to say that Link did not, in fact, need another shot.

 _“It wouldn’t have hurt, really,”_ she said to Rhett, _“but it would have been unnecessary. And stressful. I just checked, it’s on record that he had one already, I don’t know why another was ordered.”_

“It’s okay,” Rhett said. “Pretty sure you just made Link’s day.”

_“Well I’m about to undo all that, I’m afraid. I was calling you guys to share some news from forensics. I’m actually in the building right now. I have about twenty minutes before my next appointment. Can I come get you guys so we can talk in person?”_

Rhett told her that was fine, and conveyed the new plan to Link, who was relieved to hear the news he didn’t need yet another shot, but fearful about what Patty was going to tell them. 

Five minutes later Patty rounded the corner, stilting along in an impressive set of heels. Her braids were piled even higher on her head today. She looked angry and tired. They followed her down a couple of hallways until Rhett was completely lost, and then they turned into an empty room. 

Patty booted up the computer and logged in. Rhett watched Link scan the room warily – the exam table, the instruments hung on the wall, the gooseneck lamp crouching black against the ceiling. 

“Link,” said Patty, and swiveled in her chair. “Take a seat if you’d like. You’ve already had an antiretroviral prophylactic for bloodborne pathogens. You don’t need another just because the cuffs came back with other people’s blood on them.” She let out a sigh. “Since you’re here though let’s make your trip worth it. I have some results to share with you and then I want to check on how you’re doing, alright?”

Link gave a little nod. 

“I know forensics called you with some results earlier today. They also have a few other results processed. No drugs in your system.”

Link didn’t seem to react to this news, and Rhett didn’t blame him. At this point he wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news. Patty sighed again, and continued on.

“I’m afraid none of the swabs from your head came back with any definitive DNA results.”

Link was not happy to hear this, and typed something into his phone, sent it to Rhett, and showed Patty his screen.

Link: _how is that possible_

“Most of the samples were contaminated with your own DNA,” she explained. “Most of the blood on your face was yours, and your own enzymes took apart anything the man would have left in your mouth or throat.”

Link: _Whyd you even take all those swabs then? They were the worst_

“I know. I had to try though. There was a chance we’d get something, but you… Well, you were a huge mess. But hey, forensics isn’t done yet. They still have to finish with the other samples I sent them, and your clothes – not to mention anything that was found at the crime scene itself. The chair, the table. Cigarette butts, the semen they found on the floor. Police are still going over traffic camera footage to see if they can identify the car. And results haven’t come back yet from Mr. Best’s phone.”

Link stared helplessly at Patty. Patty gave him a warm little smile. 

“At least the semen we scraped off you gave us DNA from one of them. Got him into the CODIS system. Repeat offender, if the blood on the cuffs can tell us anything at all.”

Rhett thought if he heard the word ‘semen’ one more time he himself was going to vomit. 

Link: _What if they don’t find anything from the one_  
_The other one_

“The rapist himself,” Rhett supplied, because even if Link couldn’t bring himself to type it, Rhett wasn’t about to give the man the mercy of ambiguity. 

“Try not to worry about that yet,” said Patty. “Cases can still be made in the absence of any DNA. And there’s the possibility that the semen on your front was from the rapist.”

Link: _I don’t think it was_

“Your narrative certainly points to it being the other man’s, but to hold up in court there needs to be evidence to support it. The team is working on that.”

She glanced at her watch. 

“Now, I can’t keep my next client waiting, she’s already had to put up with enough. I have about ten minutes and I want to check you over and see how you’re doing, alright?”

Link shoved his phone into his pocket and Patty began by asking him to stand on the scale, where it was confirmed that of course he was losing weight but that was to be expected and nobody should be too alarmed about it yet. She checked his temperature and his bandages and the wounds on his wrists, scrutinized his broken hand, inspected his ear, took a glance at his demon eye, peered down his throat, told him he should probably get to a dentist right away when he got back home, and then she asked him to take off his shirt. 

Link resignedly tugged it up, and with Patty’s help got it over his head. She poked around at his ribs and his shoulder joint, pressed on his collar bone, did the cold-stethoscope-on-bare-skin thing. 

“Alright Link,” she said, pulling away and sitting back down at the computer. “Looks like everything is going the way it should be going, physically at least. Bruises look ugly but the colors are a good sign. Wounds are healing up, no sign of infection. You guys are doing a good job.”

Rhett helped Link back into his shirt and jacket. 

“Keep up the ice on the shoulder for another day, try not to use the arm too much. You’ll have some light physical therapy for it in a week or two. I think it’ll be okay.”

She finished entering some data before logging out and turning back to them. 

“Have you guys made plans to leave Chicago?”

“Yeah, we’re going back home tomorrow evening.”

“Flying out?”

“Yeah.”

“What does Link have for ID?”

Rhett was still at a loss about this, as was Link. The closest Link could come up with was asking his wife to send a scan of an expired passport. Patty told them to swing by the department and get an official police report before they left, so at least they’d be able to explain why Link was traveling without an ID. 

“Rhett, I know you have my number. Link, do you?”

Link shook his head. 

“Get it into your phone. You call me any time you need to, day or night. You can text me too. Let me know if you think of any questions, if you remember anything else about what happened. Any little thing could be important. You guys take it easy as you can, and have a safe flight, alright?”

“Wait, is this our tearful goodbye?” Rhett asked. Patty smirked.

“Oh, not by a long shot. Hopefully we never have to meet again in person, but as long as you want justice, I’m the one you’re stuck with, every step of the way. You’ll be so sick of hearing my voice comin’ outta your phone, your wife gonna get jealous, you’re gonna wanna change your number and everything.”

Link smiled a tiny smile.

“And when our last phone call comes to an end, there ain’t gonna be no tears, son, it’s gonna be champagne and cake.”

Despite that Patty had had virtually no good news to share, Rhett left Memorial feeling a little more buoyant than before, like a bubble of helium was lodged between his ribcage. Maybe it was Patty’s determination; maybe it was her anger. Maybe it was her competence within a flawed system, her warmth next to Alistair Marc’s indiscretions. 

Standing at the curb, waiting for the taxi, Link looked as if something in _his_ ribcage had turned to lead. 

The police department was bustling, stuffed full of people and noise and smells. It was hot; Link’s glasses fogged up immediately. Winter boots were drooling long smears of slush and mud across the floor, making it slippery. Disembodied conversations – some quiet, some angry – bounced around, punctuated by a slamming door, slamming file cabinets, slamming brakes out on the street. It smelled like bodies. Men in rumpled coats pressed into a group of young women, a mom held her boy’s hand tight, someone in a wheelchair ran over toes. Accusations were shouted; strangers bore their teeth. 

Once Rhett figured out which line to stand in, Link tried to disappear into Rhett’s shadow, pressing himself into Rhett’s side and grasping a handful of jacket. Logic: This was the safest place to be attacked, officers were on hand, people would be on their best behavior, and Link should relax. Reality: They were surrounded by a crush of upset people, the staff were distracted, and there was an entire collapsing circus of noise and smells and shadows around them. 

Rhett looped an arm around Link’s shoulder, trying to make it look casual, but really he was channeling all his own anxiety into his grip on Link and probably crushing them together slightly more forcefully than was actually necessary, but Link didn’t fight it. 

Once they made it to the front of the line they were informed that in-person report requests were now only being accepted Tuesday through Friday. They gave Link the request form and told him to return between noon and 5pm the next day. Rhett wanted to ask if it would be this busy tomorrow, too, but the man behind them in line was already pushing forward and raising his voice at the secretary, so Rhett pushed Link ahead of him and they threaded their way back outside, into the relative bliss of the open air, a siren in the distance and headlights blowing by in the dusk.

Rhett couldn’t believe the sun had already set. 

Back at the hotel, he foisted another drink at Link, who was distracted by the request form he’d been given. This was not a simple form, and with their efforts combined it took twenty minutes to be sure they’d done it right. After that, Rhett hid in his kitchen to inhale a quick dinner, and when he came out again Link was still sitting at the desk of his own suite, forms fanned out in front of him, staring at the wall. 

“What’s up?” Rhett asked. “Hey, finish your drink.”

Link took a sip, but then picked up his phone. 

Link: _I’ve been thinking_

“’Bout what?” 

Link: _Those cigarette butts Patty said they were analyzing_  
_I’ve been going over what happened in my head and I don’t think the one guy was smoking_

Rhett pulled up a chair and sat down at the desk too, sighing. Maybe it was a good sign that Link could comb through his own memories of what had happened without having a panic attack, but Rhett wasn’t happy that Link had done it to himself. 

“Which one guy?”

Link: _The one who was sitting on me, hed been smoking but I don’t think the other guy ever did_

“So… you think the butts might come back with just the one guy’s DNA?”

Link: _Yeah I mean what if_  
_I’m just afraid they wont find any DNA from the other one_

“From the rapist.”

Link looked away.

“Look, dude, Patty said they still had other stuff to go through. Your clothes, the… the table, the semen on the floor. And she said a case can be made without DNA evidence.”

Link: _Don’t you think she tells that to all her clients though_  
_Its her job to dish out hope_  
_Even if its false_

“Oh come on Link, they catch this guy – these guys – there’s _no_ way those assholes have any chance, are you kidding me? Traffic cameras, the DNA from one of them at least, they’ll have some kind of association with each other, right? And what if – hey, what if the guy _did_ die? We have the other one on file now, that’s…” 

Rhett was stopped by Link’s flat stare. 

“In any case,” he said, “text Patty about the cigarette butts, about what you remembered. I guess it won’t matter much, they’ll find what they find, but still.”

Link turned back down to his phone to do that. Now it was Rhett’s turn to stare at the wall. He frowned, wondering how difficult it might have been for Link to think back and figure out who’d been smoking, to sit back down in the chair and put the blindfold back on and remember which of the men had been standing where, whose breath had smelled of smoke. He heard Link send the text and tried to think of something uplifting to say.

“Well tomorrow should be pretty simple,” he started, which sounded like a lie right off the bat. Airports were never simple. “All we gotta do is check outta here, get to the station, pick up the report, and board a plane. Then we’re off home.”

Link nodded, politely not pointing out any of the millions of things that _could_ go wrong. Rhett chose a different spirit-lifting tactic. 

“Hey man, I know you’re not buying the hope right now and that’s, well, it’s understandable, but you know what?”

Link glanced at him.

“You got one of them assholes into the… codex system.”

Link: _CODIS_

“Yeah, that. He wasn’t in there before and now he is. Sounds like he’s done some shitty stuff in the past and gotten away with it but you got him into the system! You done a public service.”

Link: _I didn’t ask to be a public servant_

“ _Dude_ , that’s not - …” Rhett held back a frustrated huff. He told himself Link was entitled to his grumpiness. He sighed and looked at the clock, then looked back at Link.

“Well, I got somethin’ that will cheer you up for sure.”

He got up to get a glass of water for Link and grabbed something from the bedside table. He returned and plopped the items down in front of his friend. 

“Six o’ clock. Painkiller time.”

Link: _aw_  
_i was hoping you were gonna come back in a banana hammock_

“Oh, you’re saying that would cheer you up?”

Link: _All Im sayin is it’d take my mind off things_

“Gross, man. Take the pill and drink your drink or I’ll go _buy_ a banana hammock and _wear_ it. Wear it on the plane tomorrow. Give them TSA agents somethin’ to worry about.”

Link: _I bet they let you through no questions asked_

“Hey now, hey now, I’d look _highly_ suspicious. _Excuse me sir, are you smuggling grapes into California?_ ”

Link spat out his mouthful of water and the pill hit the desk. They both laughed; Link started to cough. It was another five minutes before Link stopped coughing and giggling enough to actually take the pill. 

It was odd how the stupidest damn things brought the most comfort. 

They parted to find their separate ways into bed. Rhett called his family, double-checked their flight info, organized the reams of papers they’d gathered throughout their stay. Link took a shower, committed himself stubbornly to the ordeal of brushing his teeth, texted his wife. Rhett changed and wondered which bed to get into this time. He trimmed at his beard which did not need to be trimmed until he saw Link crawl into bed with an ice pack, and observed that Link was sticking to one side. 

If he took a separate bed tonight, would Link think Rhett thought he was disgusting, like he’d asked the previous night? Then again, apparently the very idea of two straight men sleeping in the same bed – best friends though they may be – was inherently disgusting because god forbid straight men _aren’t_ disturbed by the proximity of each other’s bodies.

Rhett slipped under the covers next to his friend, noting that currently the only discomfort he was feeling was coming from the fact that his toes were sticking off the end of the bed. 

Link turned on the news and lay back with a grimace, ice pack tucked against his shoulder. His eyes were shut in minutes. College sports were on at the moment and Rhett let his mind wander back half a year or so when they’d done an episode in front of a VidCon live audience. Sharing hotel rooms and beds. _Isn’t it sad_ , Link had said.

Sports wrapped; a news anchor broke a story about how Chicago’s recent heightened drug activity plus last week’s nearby bomb threat had put air security on high alert, and check-in staff were going on strike. Footage showed a labyrinth of people squeezed together in the airport queues that stretched beyond the camera’s reach. Directly following, a smiling meteorologist explained how the warm front rolling in combined with tomorrow’s storm would likely be creating a troublesome glaze of ice over stairs, roads, cars, and, presumably, airport runways. 

“Oh come _on_ ,” Rhett grumbled. “For fuck’s sake.”

He turned the news off.

Link stirred. He cracked his eyes open and peered at Rhett.

“What?” he croaked.

“Shh, nothin’. Just turnin’ things off. Goin’ to bed. Shut your eyes.”

Link did, and Rhett turned the lights off, wondering if Link had been right about Patty.


	24. Weird Reasons to be Nervous

_5:55am_

Rhett gasped, jerked upright, flailed his arm over Link’s still-sleeping form because this was an emergency and they both had to get up immediately. 

Then he finished waking up, realized what had happened, and bunched both hands over his mouth.

Link let out a quiet snort and settled more deeply into the grey comforter. 

Rhett lowered himself back onto the bed, trying to slow his heart rate. His entire night had been punctuated by nightmares about missing their flight, which would be taking off today at 5:55pm assuming the runway was clear of ice. Waking up to see those same numbers glowering at him from the hotel alarm clock had done to his heart what any good anxious sprint through an airport would have done. 

After such a thrilling temporal discombobulation, sleep was no longer a possibility. He lay in bed, in the morning dark, Link breathing beside him, thinking about what was to come. 

They would go home today. They would return to their families. Rhett would pass off the burden of responsibility to Link’s wife, Link’s GP, Link’s inevitable future therapists. Of course he loved Link, of course he would always be there for him, of course Link would always have Rhett’s ear and his support and his shoulder to cry on. But the longer Link had to rely on _just_ Rhett, the more damage Rhett was sure was being done. 

Rhett extricated himself from the blankets. Link didn’t stir. Rhett quietly closed himself into his side of the suite, and stepped into the shower for a ten-minute overthinking session. 

Rhett had a layperson’s grasp on trauma and PTSD. He knew these things would be haunting Link, possibly for the rest of his life. He knew Link would need help processing, dealing, acclimating, whatever it was traumatized people had to do to get on with their lives. What Rhett didn’t know was how important timing was. Maybe it was fine that Link had yet to receive any sort of guidance about how to move forward.

Or maybe, and this was what was weighing on Rhett, every passing hour was another hour that Link spent subconsciously cultivating unhealthy automatic thought circuits about his body, his sense of autonomy, his trust, his own worth, and life in general. Maybe these first few days after the assault were the most important. Maybe the fact that Rhett wasn’t making Link talk about what had happened, wasn’t offering sage psychiatric advice, wasn’t dragging his friend back and forth through the small mountain of self-care pamphlets on his desk would equate to permanent mental damage, a complete 180 in character, self-harm. Rhett could change bandages, procure drinks, and be a decent cuddle buddy but that’s not what would make a difference, in the end. 

Experienced worrier as Rhett was, he knew that these particular worries were not just paranoia. These were very real and very heavy and Rhett didn’t know how to carry it all, which was why he was so eager to get Link back home where there was help. Rhett was an internetainer, who was stepping out of the shower and experiencing, among everything else, shame that that’s all he was, that this is what he’d chosen to do with his life. If he’d been a doctor or a psychiatrist or something maybe he wouldn’t feel so helpless. The very least he could do at this point was get Link safely back to California. And soon. 

He dressed, and glanced in again at Link, who was still sleeping. He shuffled over to the window and poked his head through the curtain, hoping to see a clear morning sky, but it was too dark to see what the weather was up to.

Now, he realized, would be a fine time to go pay their Sentry bill. Do it now, get it out of the way. Rip off the first of the day’s band-aids. No need for Link to be involved. He’d probably just see the total and feel guilty about making them stay at a place whose normal patrons probably had pockets all the way down to their opal-studded dolphin-leather shoes. 

Rhett put on his own shoes, but paused. What if Link woke up while Rhett was gone? Two days ago when Link had _known_ that Rhett had left to go shopping, he’d panicked. 

_Well I can’t wake him up and tell him I’m leaving, he needs sleep. Then again, I bet if he wakes up when I’m coming back in he’ll have a stroke. He’d think I was a stranger breaking into the suite or something._

He walked across the dark room, over to Link’s side of the bed, and shook his friend’s arm gently. 

“Link.”

Link grumbled.

“Link, buddy.” Rhett peeled back the top of the comforter. A mess of dark hair against pale skin. “I’m gonna go down to the lobby for a few minutes, I’ll be right back.”

Nothing.

“Dude. Link.” Another shake; a quiet groan. “Hey, wake up for a sec. _Neal_.”

“What.”

“Open your eyes.”

Two slits.

“I’ll be right back, I’m goin’ down to the lobby for a minute. Okay?”

“Ng.”

“You’re not gonna remember any of this, are you?” 

No response. 

Rhett wrote a note for Link and stuck it under his glasses, then slipped out of the room, easing the door shut as quietly as he could. 

All the way down to the lobby he balanced the trip’s original budget in his head against how the expenses were stacking up, and wondered how much of all this they could get insurance to pay for and how much would end up coming out of their own pockets. By the time he’d gotten to the desk he’d set his face, had card in hand, and was ready to bite back the inevitable wince that would come with hearing their grand total. 

“McLaughlin and Neal. We’ll be taking off today, won’t be adding anything else to our bill. I’d like to settle now if that’s alright.”

“That’s just fine,” smiled the woman. She clicked around on her computer and then gave the screen a squinty look for a moment. 

“What?”

“It’s your lucky day, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a note on your bill here. ‘Anonymous’ has funded your stay.”

Rhett stared at her. 

“What do you mean, funded our stay? Who was it?”

“Apparently they wished to remain anonymous. They put a card down to cover all your expenses at Sentry. Congratulations!”

“Well but… What was the total?”

She told him. 

He may have turned a few shades paler. 

In a fog, he wandered back towards the elevator, believing for several minutes that this was another anxiety dream. It didn’t feel like a dream, though, and he could clearly read all the numbers and letters on the elevator buttons. He stepped into their hallway, and paused to stare vacantly at a print of Chicago’s skyline. 

The only people who knew where they were staying were their families – or, that had better be the only people who knew where they were staying. Their families, and their smattering of taxi drivers, none of whom had struck Rhett as the type to throw several thousand at an expensive hotel stay for total strangers. 

He pulled out his phone to call his wife and ask if she’d had anything to do with it, but stopped himself. She’d probably still be sleeping. Also, why ‘anonymous’? Why would their families have paid for their stay anonymously? 

For one horrible, heart-pounding moment he thought there might be a connection between Link’s attack and whoever had paid their bill, simply because both parties were weird mysteries and it would have been nice for _something_ to be connected, but really that made absolutely no sense. Right? 

He grumbled to himself, as he started back down the hall towards their door, about how ‘anonymously’ paying for something should be outlawed because it was a great way to incite someone’s paranoia, but then he felt horrible because someone had footed their entire Sentry bill and the least he could do was be grateful. _I’m very grateful_ , he said loudly in his mind, in case whoever had paid the bill was listening in to his thoughts and might be angry if they found out how Rhett was reacting to it. 

Then he wondered, as he reached for the door, what in the world he was going to tell Link, and then in an incomprehensible flurry of synapsis he had the hilarious thought that Alistair Marc had paid for their stay in a weird act of contrition, which Rhett didn’t believe for one moment, and then Rhett remembered he’d meant to call John Best to thank him for giving Marc the boot in the first place, if it had been John Best, and then Rhett was hit with a sudden surety about who had paid their Sentry bill. 

He lowered his hand from the door, took a few steps back up the hallway, and pulled out his phone. 

Someone picked up his call the exact moment he realized it wasn’t a polite hour to be calling. 

_“John Best speaking.”_

“Hey John, it’s Rhett and I just now realized how early it is, I’m sorry I called at this hour.”

_“Oh, I’ve been up since five! This is a great time to call.”_

“If you’re sure.”

_“Sure as cowflops.”_

“Okay, well… I’m calling about, I guess about a couple things. First is Alistair Marc.”

_“Oh yes.”_

“Did you... say something to someone about him? About what he did?”

_“I did. Wasn’t about to let that go.”_

“Wow. You, um, really didn’t have to do that. But thank you, it means a lot.”

_“I don’t need to be thanked, and I did have to do that, Rhett. They can’t let that kind of person waltz around the hospital.”_

“Patty told us he’s in deep.”

 _“Yeah, he is.”_ John’s voice was disconcertingly cheerful. _“I know some of the old white pretzels on the Board. Being an old white pretzel myself I thought I could pound some sense into them.”_

“You're a well-connected man, huh?”

_“I know a lot of people, Rhett, I’ve been around here a long time.”_

“Wait, I thought you… Don’t you live in Seattle?”

_“That’s where my company is based, but at this point I’m hands-off. Wisconsin’s always been my home. I could never leave the ice fishing.”_

“Well I’m glad to hear that, because I just realized if you _were_ in Seattle, I’d have woken you up with this call. I think I left my brain in bed this morning.”

_“Get some coffee in you, take a nice walk. How’s Link doing?”_

“Haven’t spoken to him this morning, really, but I think better? Went to get him checked yesterday, Patty was pretty happy with what she saw.”

_“That’s great news. You two heading back soon then?”_

“Yeah, this afternoon. Evening. Leaving winter behind. So that’s the second thing, I just went down to pay our hotel bill, and, uh, an anonymous person has already taken care of it.”

_“Really.”_

“Yeah. So… I can’t really think of anyone who knows where we’re staying that would, you know… Was it you?”

_“Yeah, you got me. Thought you might figure it out but I didn’t want you to feel like you had to call me about it.”_

“John… That was _so_ much money, I don’t think we can let you – ”

_“It was my decision, I’m not taking it back, and that’s that.”_

Rhett, puzzled, leaned against the wall. 

“Why?” 

_“Why not? You’ve had a nightmare here. I had the resources. It doesn’t fix anything but maybe it’ll make the memories of your time here that much less harsh.”_

“There is actually no possible way we’ll be able to thank you.”

_“You can thank me by not worrying about how to thank me. I didn’t do it to get your thanks.”_

“I mean, the curry, and then Alistair, and now this, I can’t just – ”

_“Rhett, let me tell you something. Honest truth, I have a lot of money. Spent my whole life climbing a ladder and hurting a lot of people on the way up. The tobacco industry is a giant, lot of money in it and far as I’m concerned all of it’s dirty. A few decades of that and I was rolling in it but guilty up to the eyeballs. Once the grandkids came along I quit. Didn’t want to be a bad role model. Bought a production company. I figure I have a few years left and I’ve decided to spend it spoiling my wife – she’s put up with me for a looong time – and helping good people. Now, I hope you’re not going to make this hard.”_

“I just – ” 

_“Because if you protest any more I’ll pay the cleaning tip too.”_

“For the love of God, let us do _that_ at least!” Rhett was beginning to realize that John was the type of man who expected to get his way. Thankfully, his way seemed to be the best way, from what Rhett had seen. “Okay. I know you don’t want me to thank you, but _thank you_. From the bottom of my heart, truly. And I speak for Link too. He doesn’t know it yet but we’re both gonna, like, name our next kids after you.”

_“Do not do that.”_

“Hey, one thing – we tried to keep it quiet, about where we were staying. We didn’t know where Link’s attackers were… well, we still don’t… but we didn’t want the word to get out.”

_“I won’t say a word.”_

“That’s not what I meant – how did you know where we were staying in the first place? I don’t think I told anyone. Except my wife.”

 _“Oh heavens, Rhett,_ ” chuckled John, _“the Sentry logo was on the robe you had at the hospital. I saw it when I brought you lunch. I’m no Sherlock.”_

“Oh,” said Rhett, feeling stupid. “So much for my being careful.”

_“You’re doing your best, and you’re doing great. Link’s really lucky to have a friend like you. And vice versa, I’m sure. I know you two are going places. I hope you guys can get past all this and back to doing what you love doing.”_

“God, me too.”

_“Well. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”_

“Um… No. No, that was it. Thank you.”

_“My dog’s been giving me the eyes here, she knows it’s time for our morning walk. I better get going before she poos on the rug.”_

Rhett laughed. 

“Alright, John. Have a good walk. Take care.”

_“You too. Bye-bye now.”_

After they’d ended the call Rhett stood there in the hallway for a minute, wondering once more if in fact this was a dream. This was a very atypically positive addition to their incredibly negative experience in Chicago and it made Rhett a little nervous. John was right – his ‘donation’ wouldn’t fix anything, but it sure as hell took away a big fat sting Rhett had been expecting from the day. 

He was still shaking his head in amazement as he pushed into the suite. 

Thankfully the light inside the suite was now on; otherwise he would have tripped on the lump huddled against the wall by the door. 

“ _Christ,_ ” Rhett gasped, his surprise knocking him into the far wall. “Oh my god, you _scared_ me, man! Are you okay? Why are you down there?”

Link was wrapped in the grey blanket, its corners pulled over his shoulders. 

“Eavesdroppin’,” he said, voice heavy with sleep and misuse. “John paid our bill?”

“Yeah,” said Rhett, valiantly attempting to catch his breath. “He did.” He sat to take his shoes off, trying not to give Link too suspicious of a once-over. “So it turns out he’s, like, a reformed tobacco baron. He got super rich in the cigarette industry or something, had a change of heart… I think he’s just tryin’ to do right with the time he has left. And he knows some of the hospital’s Board. Apparently he had a word with them about Marc.”

“Damn,” Link said. “The hell’d we do to deserve any of _that?_ ”

“You must have made an impression or something.”

“Doubt it.”

“Okay so really, what were you doing sitting there when I came in?”

“Heard you talkin’, came to listen.”

“You get my note? By your glasses?”

“Yeah. You coulda just woken me up.”

“I did. Knew you wouldn’t remember.” Rhett now stared openly at his friend. “You look tired. It’s still pretty early, want to go back to bed?”

“I’m – ” Link’s response cut off into a sudden, sharp cough, followed by a few smaller ones that Link was clearly trying very hard to suppress. 

“It’s great to hear you talk again,” said Rhett, “but the nurse did say no talking for at least five days. That was like two days ago or something.”

“Sick of texting everything.”

“Yeah.”

“Sick of this goddamn headache.”

“Bad this morning?”

Link gave a slight nod. Rhett wondered how 35,000 feet would feel to Link later that day, and sighed. 

“How’s everything else? How’s your throat feel?”

“Sore. Everything is sore.” Link closed his eyes.

“Sorry, dude.”

“Feels like the worst hangover. Worse than that time with the rum.”

“You feel sick? You gonna vomit?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Want me to get you a drink?”

“No.”

“I’mma get you a drink. You don’t have to drink it,” he said, coming to his feet, “but I bet it’d help.” He ventured into the kitchen to find something with electrolytes, and to worry silently but vigorously about what would happen if Link barfed right now. Maybe it’d be fine. Or maybe his entire head would start bleeding again and they’d need to go back to the hospital. He checked his watch; just past 7:00am. Would Patty be working yet? She _had_ said to call her any time, hadn’t she? 

He swiped Link’s phone from the bedside table, grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, and then returned to sit across from Link in the hallway. He pushed his offerings up to Link, where they were ignored. 

“Bet your body’s just whinin’ ‘cause all you’re puttin’ into it is drinks. Remember Bill in college, when he tried to fast and got 24 hours into it and quit ‘cause he said he felt like it gave him a hangover? Bet it’s the same thing.”

Link set his head very gently onto his drawn-up knees.

“Want me to call Patty?”

“No.”

“How long you been feeling like this?”

“Since I woke.”

“Want to go back to bed? Lay back down for a while?”

“Don’t wanna move.”

“Want me to turn the lights off?”

“Don’t care.”

Rhett stared at Link, his own guts twisting in sympathy. He leaned back against the wall, missing his friend’s smile, his loud exclamations, his recklessness. Hating the reality of this sad ball across from him, wondering how long it’d take Link to unfurl again, if he ever would.

“At least we’re goin’ home today. We can look forward to that. Get outta this winter nonsense.”

Link let out a tiny groan. 

Rhett picked up his own phone and wasted some time trying to look busy while really he just wanted an excuse to keep a close eye on his friend. A few moments passed; Link reached out and dragged the ice pack into the cloud of blanket. Several more moments passed and Link reached for the drink. He took a few experimental sips and set it back down. 

He made a strange, mangled noise.

Rhett’s head flew up.

“Just tryin’ to talk,” Link whispered, and cleared his throat. 

“Don’t, then.”

“I’m nervous,” Link said, disregarding Rhett’s advice. “Real nervous. About today.”

“Well that’s probably making you sick. You don’t gotta be nervous, man. We’ll get to the airport with plenty of time. We’ll have that police report. Flight’s not that long. Land back in LA, scoot on home.”

Link picked listlessly at the blanket’s edge.

“What are you nervous about? Is it the airport?”

Link took a breath to speak but was arrested immediately by another set of coughs. The pain on his face made Rhett wince. 

“Just type it out, dude.”

Link picked up his phone. 

Link: _I’m nervous about going home._

“About being home? Because the… because they have your home address? Aren’t there officers watching your home now?”

Link: _That’s not really it_  
 _I mean that’s part of it but_  
…

Link paused. Rhett watched him struggle for words, or perhaps struggle for courage. He looked sick with exhaustion and dread and Rhett was struck with the thought that whatever this was about would probably be one of those things he wasn’t qualified to respond to. But Link seemed to give up, and set his phone back down. He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face, into his hair.

Rhett may not have been qualified to give psychiatric advice, but he at least knew whatever was really twisting around in Link’s mind was probably something Rhett wouldn’t be able to understand. 

“Let’s try to be at the police station by noon today,” Rhett said. “And to the airport by maybe 2:30. Give us a nice cushion of time so we don’t gotta rush. So we have all morning to pack up and get ready. Why don’t you finish that drink and go back to bed for a while? I’ll wake you up at 10:00 for another painkiller. Okay?”

Link nodded, looking defeated. Rhett helped him up and over to his bed, where he sat and stared and got through only half of his drink before giving up on that too and huddling back under the covers and closing his eyes.

Rhett moved to his side of the suite and peeked out the windows. The sky was getting brighter – bright enough to see that there was a whole lot grey, angry weather between where he stood and where the sun was actually shining. A white plastic bag rolled down the sidewalk below and then took a sudden, curling leap up into the air, riding the wind’s confusion in a fantastic gyre all the way up and over the far building’s roof. Rhett opened his weather app and stared at the storm’s radar, at its slow prowl across the state. 

From the other room, Rhett heard Link shift, heard the rattle of a prescription bottle. Rhett took a few steps towards the joining door to tell Link it was still too early for another painkiller, but remembered the bottle of painkillers was sitting on the kitchen counter and Link must be finally cracking into the sedatives.

Rhett sighed and returned to the window. Despite everything that had happened yesterday, Link _had_ been functioning. Now, when the sun was finally rising (supposedly) on the day he was to return home to his family and put this whole Chicago trip behind him, he was making himself sick with nerves, was drugging himself into a sedated stupor. 

_All the more reason to get him home_ , Rhett thought, staring back down at the radar on his phone. _Please let us go home._


	25. Verlassung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up fellow humans

10:00am.

The sedative was doing its job; Rhett couldn’t wake Link up to take a painkiller. 

Rhett sat and texted with both of their families for a while. He got in touch with Stevie, and they wondered together how long it would be until Link was back on track with work (Rhett was hoping fervently that Link _would_ one day be back on track with work). They had a considerable backlog of episodes already filmed, so there was no real reason to panic on that front. Yet. 

To her credit, Stevie had not asked for the specifics of what had happened. He’d told her enough for her to put out a blast to the employees about why the filming schedule would be changing, but not enough to pull a Dr. Marc on Link’s privacy. She would learn what had happened soon enough; she was not someone they had a habit of keeping secrets from.

Rhett packed thoughtfully. Could you take ice packs on a plane? That wouldn’t be allowed, would it? Would TSA let Link’s throat spray though? How many ounces were allowed again? Could they bring something for Link to drink on the flight, or would that be confiscated? 

While Rhett did his best to navigate these challenges, Link sat up with a groan and held his head in his hands until Rhett pointed out the pill waiting on the bedside table. Link showered (again) and spent a considerable chunk of time ‘shaving’ and ‘cleaning up’, though when Rhett happened to pass the half-closed bathroom door, he glimpsed Link standing naked in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with a horrible, haunted look on his face. Probably thinking _this is what my wife will see tonight._

Rhett winced in sympathy. 

He changed Link’s bandages and made him eat some soup and then at 11:45am they broke camp. Rhett left an amount of cash on the bed for the cleaning service that he was almost embarrassed about, but John had told him to pass on the kindness that was given to him, and then John had gone and paid for their stay, so this was the least Rhett could do, especially considering the bloody mess Link had left in the bathroom a few days ago. 

At the welcome desk, he was told that Sentry paid their staff fair wages and that they did not expect tips, to which Rhett replied _take it you nerds_. They said goodbye to the clerks, and goodbye to Guinness the dog, and then they left Sentry and stepped out into the January wind, under a grey sky.

The lines at the police station were long, but not as bad as they’d been the day before. Link handed the attendant his request for an official police report, and they were told to come back for the report in three days. Rhett argued, begged, explained that they needed it as soon as possible, that their plane took off at 5:55pm that afternoon, that they hadn’t known it would take that long to produce a report. 

The staff said they’d do what they could. Rhett and Link withdrew to a spare pair of chairs against the back wall. The considerable time and effort it took to produce a police report was not a development Rhett had been expecting. Link shook out another sedative and swallowed it while Rhett looked on, trying to conceal his envy. 

12:30pm.

Link fell back into a stupor and tipped sideways, pressing into Rhett’s shoulder. The chairs were uncomfortable, the fluorescents on the ceiling casting a sick-looking greenish glow over the tumult of other desperate, worried people. Rhett’s eyes zig-zagged across the crowd, waiting for some suspicious-looking man to slouch through the doors itching his crotch, spot Link, let out a bellow of rage, and charge. 

Rhett told himself to calm down; nobody could even see Link’s face, buried as it was in Rhett’s jacket. If anybody _were_ to charge at Link, though, Rhett would soon thereafter be arrested for manslaughter. Or at least charged for battery, and the assailant would have to be put on the waitlist for a dick transplant because Rhett would be removing it with one of the clerk’s papercutters. 

People came and went; time passed. Rhett stared at his phone, tracking the progress of the storm on the weather radar. To his very careful delight, it seemed to be doing a bit of a limbo under the tip of Lake Michigan and it was looking as if it might, possibly, maybe miss Chicago altogether.

1:15pm. 

Last night’s newscast ricocheted around in Rhett’s brain. Bomb threats, strikes. Reasons they should probably be heading towards the airport sooner rather than later. This wait at the station might be causing them to cut things a little close. _This report had better be worth it_ , he grumped to himself. He simmered quietly, eyes darting, staring at the clerks and the wall clock and the crowd and Link until finally, about the time Rhett was beginning to believe that not only would they miss the flight but he’d never regain feeling in his butt ever again, a clerk called Link’s name. 

It was 2:30pm when they left the police station. 

The worry-wort part of Rhett busied itself pressing all Rhett’s PANIC buttons, sure they didn’t have enough time now. He was getting sweaty, pissy when their taxi hit a red light or got stuck behind a bus. He tried to keep his anxiety from showing because Link, crumpled in the opposite seat, kept glancing at him, like he was trying to remind himself where he was and why they were there. The other part of Rhett knew they’d be fine – he _always_ worried about missing flights, and everything always turned out fine. They had proof of why Link was traveling without ID now; they just had to get through the next three hours. Once they were on the plane they’d be home free.

His precious little kernel of comfort began to dissipate when they passed through the double-doors into the airport proper.

The check-in lines alone were enough to bring Rhett’s blood pressure back into what his doctor certainly would have called the danger zone. Apparently the airport staff’s strike was doing what it was meant to do, that is it was causing a considerable back-up. He consulted his phone and dragged himself, their luggage, and Link into the correct line, which snaked up and down such a confusion of ribbons and stanchions that Rhett wanted to turn his face into _Link’s_ shoulder and just forget about what was ahead of them. 

This was not his part, though, and he knew it. Luggage in hand, he entered the queue. Link followed quietly, trying to stare at the floor but just awake enough to dart glances at the people surrounding them in line. 

A pair of bleach-blonde women – sisters? – cackling at each other’s constant jokes. A family of four, mother and father not talking, two children standing silent, pressed against each other. An elderly woman with a generally-horrified thousand-yard stare, brown headscarf secured under her jaw, clutching at the cross hanging around her neck. This woman was just about the only one who wasn’t craning around trying to catch a glimpse of how long the lines were to get through security after check-in. Rhett had a uniquely clear view of said lines, and seeing them only compounded his mounting anxiety. TSA appeared to be almost as backed up as check-in. 

Rhett bent over his phone, skimming through alternative flight options. He wanted a Plan B, and he wanted to be able to share their Plan B with Link so his friend wouldn’t have to feel as anxious as Rhett currently was. Surely there was a flight coming up soon they could hitch a ride on, if they missed this one. Chicago to LA was a very popular trip.

Flights were booked. Prices were jacked. People were cancelling and rescheduling and eyeing the storm the same way Rhett had been doing, and the whole booking system was currently in a state of chaos. 

Slowly, the line digested them. Link took to sitting on his rolling luggage whenever the line wasn’t moving, which it usually was not. He sat as close to Rhett as he could and braced his head on his hands and stared at the floor, or shut his eyes. Rhett tried to take up as much space as he could to keep people from getting closer than they had to, and made an attempt at keeping in physical touch with Link – a knee-tap, a shoulder touch – because he thought it might help to anchor his friend, who was, after all, currently on his own special sedated voyage. 

It took them just under an hour to get to the check-in desk. When their turn finally, _finally_ came, Rhett was so wound up that his own hands were trembling. He presented his own driver’s license and then their boarding information on his phone, and then, with one last swift prayer, explained to the attendant why Link was unable to provide a legal ID, and what they’d brought instead. Rhett offered the police report, and the image on his phone that Link’s wife had sent – a copy of an expired passport.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said flatly, looking as if she were not sorry in the least, and giving no weight at all to the old passport photo. “All passengers must provide current, legal identification to receive a boarding pass.”

Rhett’s heart dropped into his bowels. Beside him, Link stood completely frozen, as if he were holding his breath. 

“Yes, but all his identification was _stolen_ a few days ago,” Rhett repeated. “We need to get back home. We were told if we provided a copy of the official police report, we could get through.” This was a small lie; Patty had merely recommended that they obtain a report, not that it would work as a substitute. 

“I’m really sorry sir,” she sighed, eyeing the considerable line behind them. Clearly she just wanted to keep the line moving, and Rhett was being a huge inconvenience. 

“This isn’t our fault,” Rhett said, and it came out a bit more barkish than he’d intended, but his anger was clawing up out of his throat. “My friend didn’t _ask_ to be beaten up and robbed. There’s nothing else we can do. Are you telling me we’re stuck in Chicago now?” 

Link put a hand on Rhett’s arm. Through his grip Rhett could feel Link’s hand trembling, which only served to stoke Rhett’s temper. 

The woman stared at the two of them, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Then: 

“I’ll call my manager. Step to the side, please.”

Rhett thanked her gruffly, and hauled their luggage off to one side of the counter.

3:45pm. 

Link sat back down on his suitcase and folded his arms over his stomach, looking ill. Rhett ground his teeth and watched as the line of people filed past; the two blonde women, clearly off to have a good time, checking in with no problems, lunging off towards TSA arm-in-arm. The family of four, looking nervous, negotiating an overpacked suitcase, re-packing their luggage right there in front of everybody. The old woman with the headscarf who could barely straighten up enough to send her generally-horrified expression at the check-in staff, speaking in raspy, broken English punctuated by German-sounding mumbles. 

It took the manager almost twenty minutes to get to Rhett and Link. This woman was tall, thin, severe as a librarian, with a pick in her bun that made Rhett wonder if she’d ever killed anyone. After much debate, she produced a sheaf of forms that would take her another few minutes to fill out, and then she handed Rhett and Link their boarding passes, as well as a cryptic, angry-looking red-lettered form that Link was to give to the TSA agents in lieu of his ID. 

Rhett thanked her, and then he took Link’s boarding pass and other documentation into his own hands, because Link’s hands were shaking so bad Rhett was afraid he’d drop the precious papers. 

“Alright buddy,” he muttered, grabbing up as much of the luggage as he could. “One more stop. Just gotta get through security.”

4:10pm.

Rhett tried to count backwards as he pushed through crowds of wandering, confused people. Plane departed at 5:55. Be at the gate at least forty minutes before departure. He figured if they got to the gate by 5:15 there wouldn’t be a problem. This meant they had just over an hour left.

They took their place at the end of the security line. They couldn’t even see the TSA checkpoints yet, and for the first ten minutes the line did not move at all. The people around them shifted on their feet, glanced at watches, muttered about their flights and about the storm and the strike. The line shuffled; people dragged their luggage forward, feet by feet. 

Rhett took a moment to scan the slip of paper the check-in manager had handed Link. He couldn’t decipher precisely what it all meant, because it was clearly written in some kind of super secret airport code that presumably one could only read if one were a TSA agent, but it looked like it was something that wouldn’t necessarily usher them through the checkpoint. 

He spent his time staring up at the giant digital time display, trying to calculate their chances of getting to their flight on time by creating complex algorithms based on how fast the line moved, how many people he thought were between them and the other side of security. When he wasn’t busy coming up with upsetting mathematical results, he was staring at his phone’s weather radar, which seemed to be offering objectively good news.

“Hey Link, the storm is missing us. Look at that.” 

He held is phone down for Link to see, but Link barely reacted. Rhett didn’t know what he’d been expecting. All this meant for them was that their plane would not be delayed because of weather after all, and now they had fifty minutes before they had to board, and they were nowhere near the head of the TSA line. 

The line crawled; time sped. Link trembled and Rhett worried. Link hadn’t consumed anything for almost five hours. Rhett berated himself; caloric intake at the airport was kind of a crapshoot anyways but he’d really blown it this time. He had nothing to offer to Link. They’d have to hope to find something in the terminals. How much of Link’s trembling was anxiety and how much was low blood sugar? The closer they got to the checkpoint the paler Link’s face seemed to get. Maybe it was the bright lighting, but Rhett doubted it. Eventually he could see the pre-check agent, asking for passes and ID and then directing clods of people down one of several lines.

Five people away, and Link huffed out a long, shaky breath, triple-checked that his pockets were empty. Rhett put a hand on his shoulder and tried to give it a reassuring squeeze. Three people away; Rhett sized up the agent, trying to decipher if they’d be nice and let both Rhett and Link through into the same lane. One person away; Rhett handed Link his boarding pass and slip of red script. 

Rhett stepped forward first; the agent waved him through. Link held out his papers next, hand shaking so badly the agent had to take the items to read them properly. She squinted at the red script. Link’s eyes darted up to meet Rhett’s, then slid back to the agent. She raised her walkie-talkie and muttered into it, and handed his forms back. 

“Lane 6 please, sir,” she said, and waved him towards a lane that had a shorter line.

“Excuse me,” said Rhett, “he’s with me. Can I use lane 6 too?”

She eyed Link – his hands, his face – and nodded.

Rhett glanced up at the digital clock.

4:50pm.

It became immediately obvious that Lane 6 was the lane that especially suspicious cases got sent to. A man in a wheelchair was being thoroughly inspected. A woman talking a million miles a minute in French, gesticulating angrily at her boarding pass. A higher concentration of blue-uniformed agents were staffing this lane, and they all looked as if they ate roofing nails for breakfast. 

Rhett went first, in an attempt to buffer Link from whatever was coming. 

Shoes off. Jackets off. Belts off. Rhett helped Link out of his jacket and then dumped their carry-on into the bins, all liquids and electronics out. Rhett was asked to step into the full-body scanner, which was almost comically cramped once Rhett raised his arms and waited for the machine to make its circuit. It beeped. He glanced back at Link, who was watching the events in general horror.

The agents ran a wand around Rhett’s limbs and waved him on. He breathed, which he’d been forgetting to do, and then backed away to watch Link. 

_Maybe this won’t be that bad_ , he thought. _Maybe they’ll let him breeze through just like I did. Maybe we’ll be fine._

Link didn’t even get to step into the scanner before there was a hitch. 

He’d handed his boarding pass, red script, and police report to the agent; the agent held up his hand to stop Link in his tracks. The agent pulled a radio from his belt and stood there looming over Link, staring down at the script, muttering incomprehensibly with some other entity, and then suddenly the agent was talking to Link, and Link was trying to respond. The agent kept bending closer and closer and Link begun to cough.

“Excuse me,” Rhett said, to an agent standing behind the conveyer belt. “Excuse me sir.”

The agent looked up at him. 

“That’s my friend over there. He’s, um, he can’t really talk right now, he’s recovering from a surgery. I can answer any questions you guys have.”

“Stay on this side of the checkpoint, please, sir.”

“Look,” said Rhett, leaning closer, bringing his voice down. “He’s really stressed right now. I think I should be with him. I’m afraid he might faint or something.”

The agent gave Rhett a very bland look, but then leaned back and waved the agent trying to speak with Link over. They had a short, quiet discussion. Rhett couldn’t hear what they were saying; his eyes flitted between them, and Link, and the clock. After a moment Rhett was allowed to join Link behind the body scanner, where they were both peppered with a host of questions about Link’s identity, presumably in an attempt to somehow prove he was who he was. Really all it was doing was putting both Rhett and Link into an even more flustered state, and by the time the interrogation was over Rhett thought he himself might collapse. 

Link was waved through, though the agent looked none too pleased about it. 

Rhett almost breathed a sigh of relief, but yet another agent came forward and pulled Link over to stand on two footprint stickers on the floor. The agent snapped on a pair of blue gloves and turned to Link. 

“Do you consent to a pat-down screening, sir.” 

It didn’t sound like a question. 

Link recoiled a little, and what precious little color had remained in his face drained away. 

“Sir,” droned the agent, “this will only take a moment.”

“He don’t want a pat-down screening,” Rhett said, lunging forward perhaps a bit too quickly, because his urge to protect his friend was on high alert, despite that such an urge would likely be counterproductive at a TSA security checkpoint.

“Please step back, sir,” the agent said to Rhett. Rhett stopped, but only because he thought startling a TSA agent would also be highly counterproductive.

“He’s got a bunch of injuries,” he heard himself blurt. “Can you just do the wand thing?”

“Do you have injuries on your body?” the agent asked Link.

Link gave a nod.

“Can you tell me where they are?”

Link stared at the agent helplessly, and then tried to say _mostly my front_ , which Rhett understood perfectly because he could read Link’s lips like a book but the agent just leaned forward and shouted _speak up please sir_ and Link winced and tried to repeat himself but ended up coughing and then a drop of blood fell from his nose and hit the floor. 

Rhett’s first thought was to get Link’s throat spray – _anything_ to stop a coughing fit that might incite another catastrophic nosebleed or open the cauterized wound still healing in his throat. But the agents scanning their carry-on had opened Link’s bag and were carefully scrutinizing the various prescriptions, the gauzes and tape Rhett had stashed in there, and, yes, the spray bottle. 

They would not give the spray bottle to Rhett. 

He turned back to Link, who was standing there holding his nose, shoulders hunched nearly up to his ears, the agent muttering into a radio and standing squarely in front of Link as if he were trying to intimidate a suspicious dog. Rhett paced back and forth between the agent guarding Link and the group of agents going through their stuff and thought his anxiety was just about ready to come to a boil, that he was about to pop in mid-stride, that Link was about to witness the epic explosion of his best friend and then ultimately miss the flight home because it was now 5:00pm and no sign yet that TSA was anywhere close to letting Link through. 

“Alright, sir,” said the agent in front of Link, “we can do a pat-down screening right here, or you can request a private enhanced pat-down screening.” 

Rhett wanted to punch someone. He felt his eyes bulging. He wanted to shake the agents until their skulls rattled on their spines, yell _don’t you understand why that can’t happen_ but of course they didn’t understand and of course it didn’t matter to them because they were following procedure, and the procedure was about to either make them miss their flight or traumatize Link or quite possibly both. 

Instead of giving the man his answer, Link wavered on his feet, tripped to the side a half-step, and then sank down into an unsteady crouch. 

This time the agent didn’t seem to mind as Rhett lunged over to his friend. 

“Okay,” he said into Link’s hair, “Alright, this is happening. Link?”

Link had dropped his boarding pass, had hit the chilly concrete with both hands, jarred his broken finger, and fell down onto that elbow. Rhett tugged at his friend’s shoulders. 

“You fainting?” he asked. “Gotta breathe, Link.”

Link took a couple deep, shuddering breaths, settling down closer to the floor in a huddle. Rhett bent down, trying to peer up at his friend’s face. There was another drop of blood on the ground by Link’s knee. He pressed a palm onto Link’s cheek, his forehead, as if that would do anything. All he could determine from doing that was that Link was still trembling. 

He glanced up; everyone was looking at them. The smattering of airport visitors clustered into Lane 6 had paused, were staring wide-eyed. The agents were all squinting at each other, at Rhett and Link, at their radios, probably trying to decide if this was some kind of elaborate scheme to ferret a bomb onto a plane or if this was one of those situations where if they didn’t call for medical assistance right away they’d risk a lawsuit. 

Link did not faint though; he eventually rose into a kneel, and then let Rhett haul him back to his feet. The agents seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Rhett reached up to wipe the blood out from under Link’s nose with his sleeve. The bleeding had stopped.

Rhett glanced at the clock and choked on his next breath.

An agent came forward and asked if Link needed medical assistance. Rhett was tempted to say that, yes, Link needed medical assistance, as well as his throat spray, a high-calorie drink, a formal apology, a day at the spa and a puppy, but instead told the agent that Link was stressed and weak and that he was carrying some injuries as well as the strong wish not to be touched by strangers but that he did not need them to call medical. 

The agent nodded, and explained that given Link’s lack of ID, the red script from check-in, the items in his carry-on and his refusal to consent to a TSA checkpoint pat-down, he could either choose a private enhanced pat-down screening or he could choose to stay in Chicago until he obtained a new photo ID. 

Rhett could have wept. 

An agent begun to shepherd Link towards a closed door. Link took a handful of Rhett’s sleeve and asked if Rhett was allowed to go with. The agent couldn’t hear Link; Rhett repeated Link’s question. The agent simply nodded, and gestured for another blue uniform to follow them in. 

The four of them entered a room that was glaringly white and had seemed glaringly empty until the door shut behind them. A table, a chair, a trash bin holding a few pairs of spent blue gloves. A black camera lurking in the corner like a spider. The two agents were large men, both easily taking up twice the space Link did, and both several inches taller, even if Link hadn’t been cringing into himself. One of the men merely stood with his back against the door, hands clasped in front of himself, and watched. The other led Link over to a chair and told him he could sit if he wanted. 

Link sat. 

Rhett crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, worrying about the time and worrying about Link and worrying that the agents were going to ask Link to undress or something. They’d said ‘enhanced’ pat-down, what the hell did that even mean? Rhett was ready to grab Link and flee all the way back to the desk at Sentry and hide under there with Guinness if anyone mentioned ‘cavity search’. 

This agent, with his close-cropped black hair and his biceps bulging against his sleeves, scribbled on a clipboard and consulted Link’s boarding pass and the police report and the damned little red script, and then looked at Link.

“So no ID, huh?”

“It was stolen,” Link said, and in the quiet of the room, his voice carried. The agent bent down and scrutinized Link’s face, his bruises, the fading color of his demon eye. Link sat still as a statue. 

The agent flipped back to reading through the police report. Rhett had seen what was described in the report; the times and dates, the report of events, injuries and evidence, it was all laid out in horrible unbiased detail. He sidled up to Link’s chair and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Link jumped, twined his feet together under the chair, knuckles white as he gripped the seat. Moments passed.

5:10pm.

The agent sighed and set the report down. 

“That sucks,” he said, which was not what Rhett was expecting to hear. “I get it, man.” He reached into a box of blue exam gloves and begun stuffing his ham-like hands into them. “I understand this is hard and that it isn’t your fault, that you don’t have ID. All the stuff in your carry-on. Makes sense.”

Nevertheless, he adjusted the gloves around his wrists. 

“I’ll be quick as I can. Soon as I’m done, you and Mr. McLaughlin can get to your flight.”

“Departs at 5:55,” Rhett said, which was very stupid but it spilled out anyways.

“I saw that, yeah,” said the agent, “so let’s get this over with for you. Stand if you would, Mr. Neal.”

Link pushed himself to his feet.

“Do I have your consent to perform a pat-down screening?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Link whispered. Rhett’s horror for the sake of his friend was almost too loud in his mind; the agent may have read the report, might understand on the surface why this sucked, but how could he possibly know how particularly and specifically unpleasant this situation was to Link, this stranger with his man hands asking for Link’s consent to be groped?

“Do you have any sore or sensitive areas on your body I need to be aware of?”

Link tried to say something but the words got stuck. He cleared his throat and tried again. 

“I got bruises on my front,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “kind of, um, everywhere. And my shoulders.”

“He’s got a separated right shoulder,” Rhett added, which at this point might have been a little dramatic but he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to force the agent to be more gentle. 

“That it?” 

“He’s got a split ear. And don’t touch his neck, he just had surgery.”

“Aright.”

“Might have a cracked rib.”

“Christ, anything else? You got a glass leg or something too?” The man let out a small chuckle in a probable attempt to lighten the mood but it didn’t work, so he sighed. 

“Let’s check out that splint,” he said. 

He poked around the contraption on Link’s hand, waved a wand around it, seemed to ignore how much it was shaking. Then he moved to the bandage around Link’s wrist, pushing at it very gently, and gave it the wand as well. 

“Alright, sir, I’m gonna come around behind you and touch your head and feel around your collar.”

The man ran his hands down Link’s head, through his hair, stuffed his fingers down the back of Link’s collar, felt around its hem.

“Arms out.”

Rhett watched as the man moved around Link’s shoulders. He was being careful but he was being thorough, and Rhett couldn’t understand this because Link’s clothing traditionally left very little to the imagination and there really wasn’t much space to hide anything.

Hands across Link’s back; hands smoothing down his sides, pressing into his ribs. Link bit his lip, stared at the white, blank wall. The man came around to Link’s front, and Link closed his eyes. Fingers down the front of his shirt, gentle around his neck. Hands over his chest, against his sternum, down his front, around his waist. The man was concentrating, watching what he was doing; he didn’t see what Link was actually trying to hide, which were tears, which wasn’t a threat at all and the agents wouldn’t care but it was making Rhett sick to see it. He thought about how unfair this all was, how terribly unlucky this all had been, but reminded himself that luck had nothing to do with it, that this was all one big waterfall of shitty events that stemmed from one asshole’s belief that he was entitled to take what wasn’t his to take. 

“Hands behind your head now. Can you widen your stance please, sir.” Link obliged, despite that his shoulder must have been asking him not to.

The man crouched and poked at Link’s ankles, up his calves, his thighs. The agent probably thought he was saving the worst for last, groping at Link’s jeans, pushing under his ass, sticking his fingers under Link’s waistband and running them along the hem. Rhett was watching Link’s face and thinking that either the chest part had been the worst part for him or that Link had abandoned himself and was astral projecting and maybe watching what was happening from where his spirit was hovering on the ceiling, because his face had gone blank. 

“Alright, Mr. Neal,” the agent said, and peeled off the blue gloves. “You have an all-clear. Take a seat, I’ll just finish this up.” 

The agent picked up the clipboard and scribbled. Link lowered himself down into the chair. Rhett didn’t know if he should touch his friend or not so he brushed Link’s shoulder and then stood there, trying to be a pillar of support, but he had been watching the clock and it was 5:20pm and he felt as if his guts were draining down his legs into the floor. 

As if on cue, through the silence of the room, Rhett heard the airport speaker system.

_LAST CALL FOR PASSENGERS FOR FLIGHT N20 FROM CHICAGO TO LOS ANGELES._

Link rose shakily to his feet, lurched over to the trash bin, grabbed it like it was the only stable thing left in his world, and heaved. Rhett wanted to throw his hands into the air and yell _I give up, Jesus Christ just end it all, I’m done_ , but he knelt next to his friend, put a hand on his back, tried to peer up at Link’s face and, yes, his nose was bleeding again. Watery bile in the bin because there was nothing else for him to throw up.

“He okay?” asked the agent.

Rhett had no idea what to say, so didn’t respond. He rubbed Link’s back, felt the spasms running up and down Link’s torso. 

“Buddy,” he said, “we don’t have to go right now.”

Link spat. Flecks of crimson burst on the plastic bin lining. 

“Don’t… don’t worry about it, we can get another flight.” _Was that a lie?_ “We can rent a car. Roadtrip back home. We don’t have to kill ourselves trying to get to the god damn airplane.”

_PAGING CHARLES NEAL AND RHETT MCLAUGHLIN FOR FLIGHT N20. FINAL BOARDING CALL._

Link hacked, struggled to breathe. Rhett reached for his phone, ready to call Patty, ready to call an ambulance, a taxi, their wives, maybe John would have another miracle up his sleeve. 

“Let’s just forget about it, alright? Let’s get out of here. We can just go, leave the airport.”

“After all this shit?” Link whispered. “Just get me to the fuckin’ gate.”

Rhett stood up. 

“Can we take the trash can?” he asked.

“Yeah, you take that,” the agent said. “I’ll call the gate, tell ‘em you’re on your way.”

Rhett didn’t pause to thank him; he hauled up on Link’s arm. The man who’d been blocking the door opened it, stepped aside for them. Rhett scooped up their carry-on items, they shoved on their shoes, draped jackets over arms, and, with the loud echo of their final boarding call chasing them, they plunged into the terminal. 

They took a wrong turn; backtracked, shoved through long lines of people waiting to order overpriced juice drinks, the kind of drink that would have given Link’s body something to live on but now there wasn’t time. Rhett leading Link by his sleeve, Link concentrating on keeping his feet under himself and directing whatever came out of his face into the white trash bin. 

_CHARLES NEAL AND RHETT MCLAUGHLIN FOR FLIGHT N20. YOUR GATE IS CLOSING._

Rhett heard Link curse in his ear; just what they needed, everyone in the airport knowing Rhett and Link were somewhere in the building. He thought he heard someone shriek their names from across the mainway; he pulled harder on Link’s sleeve. 

“He said he’d fucking _call_ them,” Rhett huffed, gasping, eyeballs swinging around in a desperate search for their gate, and they almost blew right past it. 

Rhett steered them towards the counter, where the clerk was roping off the boarding dock. Rhett called, they stumbled up to her. Wide-eyed, she peeled the rope back, looked at their boarding passes. Asked to see Link’s ID. Link let out a tired wail; Rhett bumbled through a brief account of everything they’d just been through, she called security. A moment later she waved them through. Link set the white trash bin down somewhere along the way; they stumbled to a stop at the gate into the airplane. 

A perky flight attendant looked scandalized at the sight of them, but ushered them on board, directed them down to the back of the plane, bumping past passengers already settled, past overhead compartments stuffed with cases and straps, past knees and shoulders and a crying child and Rhett chanting to himself _no fans no fans please no fans_ and absolutely everyone they passed, even the crying child, stared at them as they wedged themselves down the aisle, and there they were, there were their seats, the only two empty seats on the entire airplane. 

The old woman with the headscarf and the thousand-yard stare sat by the window. She spared them a single glance, regarding them with the same general horror she seemed to regard the rest of the world with.

Rhett stuffed Link into the middle seat, because there was no way in heaven or hell Rhett would fit in there. Then he stuffed Link’s carry-on under the seat, stuffed his own carry-on in the overhead compartment, and then stuffed himself down into the seat next to Link, and then they both sat and trembled and waited for someone to call their name, for some damning announcement to be projected over their heads, for Link to faint or barf or decide he wanted to get off, but all that happened was his nose let go of one more drip of blood. 

A flight attendant sashayed past and asked them to put their seatbelts on. 

A moment later, the plane backed up onto the runway and begun its slow taxi towards liftoff.

As if on cue, as if they’d rehearsed it, Rhett and Link turned and stared at each other in wonder or horror or something. Link’s mouth quirked, tipping his expression slightly more into amazement, and Rhett dared himself to laugh because if it wasn’t so damned painful, it would have been a little funny. 

Link huffed out a single laugh in response, but then turned his head and stared out the window, past the old woman in the brown headscarf, and cried a little, wiping the tears away as they fell. The plane turned and turned around the labyrinth of runways, lined up, and then with a sudden thrill of acceleration lifted into the air. 

The woman next to the window closed her eyes and muttered something – a prayer? – in near-silent German. 

As soon as was allowed, Rhett pulled out Link’s carry on. Link swallowed another sedative dry, on an empty stomach, and Rhett noted to himself exactly where the nearest barf bag was. 

Incredibly, Link did not need the barf bag. The sedative hit him like a ton of bricks and he fell asleep, or into a deep stupor, leaning heavily and shamelessly into Rhett. When the refreshments cart came by Rhett thought about shaking Link awake to see if he wanted anything but Rhett realized that there was nothing – not the carbonated pop, not the acidic orange juice, the hot coffee – that Link could have, save water, so Rhett asked for a bottle of water, and then he held it in his lap for two hours as Link slept. 

They moved through significant turbulence; the woman in the brown headscarf gripped her cross. Night overcame their flight. 

Rhett fell asleep. This was not insignificant, crumpled up as he was, legs tangled with Link’s, back crunched and aching. He awoke at 8:00pm because he had to pee. Peeing on airplanes was bad enough for people who weren’t actual giants so he contemplated holding it but he’d been miserable enough today, he didn’t need to make himself any more miserable. 

“Link,” he whispered, as if there was any hope at all of rousing his friend at this point. He pushed Link’s head up, tried to prop him up against the back of his own seat. Link stayed there for a moment, long enough for Rhett to extract himself from his own seatbelt and stand up (to an orchestra of angry noises from various joints). Link then began to slide over to the other side – that is, towards the shoulder of the old woman with the brown headscarf, who was staring out the window as if she wished she could jump.

“Oh, Link, don’t – ”

It was too late; Link’s head hit the woman’s shoulder. She turned, stared at his hair.

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Rhett. “Link, dude, wake up.” He reached for his friend’s shoulder.

The woman waved Rhett’s hand away. She looked at Rhett and he thought maybe he’d never seen such desperately sad eyes in his life. 

“Is that okay?” he asked her, and instead of giving him an answer she just turned her horrified, bewildered, tired stare back to the darkness beyond the windows. 

“Hat Gott alle seine Kinder verlassen?” she mumbled. Rhett didn’t know German but he thought he knew a rhetorical question when he heard it. 

He went to use the restroom; it was as horribly cramped as expected.

Upon returning to his seat, Link was still huddled into the shoulder of the woman, who was still staring out the window. Rhett settled back down, folding his legs back into the impossible space between the seats, nudging Link’s aside. Link woke up; Rhett pressed the water bottle into his hands.

“You can take another painkiller now if you want,” he said. Link looked sick at the very thought, and shook his head gently.

Then Rhett closed his eyes and didn’t fall asleep again because the seat was too uncomfortable. Link settled back into Rhett’s shoulder, then dropped down to sprawl awkwardly into Rhett’s lap, where Rhett’s grumbling stomach sang him a very grumpy lullaby. This is where he stayed until the airplane begun to drop down through the altitudes, at which point he sat up and held his head and shut his eyes until the wheels touched the tarmac, the plane taxied to their landing gate, the Welcome To Los Angeles announcement chirped over the system.

Rhett turned to Link, _we made it home, dude_ on his lips, but Link looked distinctly unhappy, almost as fearful as he’d looked at the TSA checkpoint, and then he reached swiftly for the barf bag and was sick.


End file.
